Samael’s hand moved from Mithros’s waist to rub over his chest, pressing calming energy into Mithros’s body. It was cool, and felt unbelievably good. Mithros wondered, for the thousandth time, how he could possibly deserve this. He dropped the scroll into his lap and let his head loll, resting against Samael.
Aren opened the door carrying a tray of tea. He looked beautiful, as always, golden-green eyes offset by the black-and-gold robes he always wore when working in the heavens. His long brown hair was pulled high into a ponytail.
“I’m home!” he said. “Deamos gave this to me. He said he was too busy to deliver it. But of course, I also just wanted to—”
He stopped when he saw their position. His gaze dropped to their disheveled robes. Then back up, and back down at the tea service.
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