Dean slept.
He had gone under in increments against Arion's shoulder, protesting the entire time in spirit if not in words, and now he was out, breathing slowly, face softened, one hand still tangled loosely in the front of Arion's shirt as if, even asleep, some part of him had decided to hold on.
Arion sat very still.
The windows remained open. The ventilation ran harder through the hidden channels in the walls, low and discreet behind carved stone and polished wood. Cool winter air moved the curtains and thinned the room by degrees, but it did not erase what had happened here. Vetiver still lingered in the suite, threaded now with Dean's softer scent and sleep-warm skin.
Arion kept his own pheromones leashed as tightly as he could.
That did not mean they were calm.
It meant he was barely.
