The morning after, if you could call it that when the sun was already high, Gabriel lay sprawled across the bed like a man who had survived both a siege and a natural disaster, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. The sheets were a tangle around his hips, his hair mussed enough to suggest he'd been through several storms in quick succession.
"Close the curtains," he muttered to no one in particular. "Or better yet, close the world."
The muffled sounds of quiet efficiency drifted in from the edges of the room: the swish of fabric being stripped from the bed, the muted clink of glassware being gathered from the side table. The staff moved with practiced discretion, their faces politely blank as they aired out the thick, lingering scent of rut from the room. Someone cracked a window. Gabriel groaned like the noise itself was an insult.
