The hotel room is a fucking mess.

Clothes everywhere. Hockey bags dumped near the door. Empty takeout containers stacked on the desk because neither of them felt like throwing shit away yet. The TV plays some random late night movie with the volume low enough neither of them is actually paying attention.

Rain taps softly against the windows overlooking the city.

Daemon Forbes is sprawled across the bed shirtless, one arm behind his head, the other holding an ice cream bar that’s already melting down his fingers because he keeps forgetting to eat it.

His tattoos stretch across scarred skin under the dim hotel lighting, dark ink wrapping around old marks he stopped hiding a long time ago. Black hair messy from the shower he took twenty minutes ago. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

He looks relaxed.

Well.

Daemon’s version of relaxed.

Meaning he still looks like he might tell someone to fuck off at any moment.

Archer sits beside him against the headboard, also shirtless, beer bottle resting against his stomach. Golden skin warm under the soft lights, sandy hair still damp. There’s a small smear of chocolate near his thumb from the ice cream bar he destroyed in under two minutes.

“You eat like a fucking animal,” Daemon mutters.

Archer looks over. “You’ve been holding the same ice cream for like ten minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You don’t think about ice cream.”

“You don’t know me.”

Archer snorts loudly. “I literally married you.”

“Debatable.”

Archer reaches over immediately and steals the ice cream bar from Daemon’s hand before it completely melts.

“Hey.”

“You were wasting it.”

Daemon glares at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet here I am. In your hotel bed.”

Daemon takes a long drink from his beer instead of responding.

Outside, thunder rumbles faintly.

The air conditioning hums softly in the background, cold enough that Archer eventually shifts closer without thinking. Their legs brush. Familiar. Automatic.

Daemon glances sideways. “Cold.”