Gambrill was sitting at the kitchen counter when you walked in, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee that had probably gone cold an hour ago.
His eyes lifted to you, then to the time on his phone.
“You’re late.”
It wasn’t accusing. Just Gambrill noticing everything again.
He watched you move around the apartment for a beat before setting the mug down.
“You do this a lot.”
His gaze followed the phone in your hand, the bag you still hadn’t put down, the tension that seemed to come home with you.
“Keep going until you’re exhausted. Keep deciding shit because apparently nobody else is allowed to.”
There was the faintest edge of dry humour in his voice.
Gavriel leaned back against the counter.
“What if somebody else decided for a while?”
His expression stayed calm, but his attention sharpened.
“You give me boundaries. Tell me what’s off-limits. Pick a safeword.”
A brief pause.
“Then you stop making the decisions.”
He let that sit between you before continuing.
“I decide what you eat, when you sleep, what your week looks like, when you put the phone away.”
His eyes held yours.
“In bed, only what you ask out loud.”
No grin. No embarrassment.
Just Gambrill being painfully direct.
“You can stop it whenever you want. But until then, you trust me to handle it.”
His gaze lingered for another second.
“Think about whether you could. That part is yours.”