Dean awoke from a long day of sleep to the familiar ceiling of Arion's bedroom… the man himself glued onto him once again.
Arion was sleeping.
Of course the Crown Prince of Alamina, who could track beasts by pheromone residue and intimidate a council into silence with a single look, had apparently decided that the best place to recover from a near-rut spiral was pressed against Dean like a heat-seeking barnacle with royal titles.
Dean lay still for a moment, blinking slowly, letting his body inventory itself.
No fever. No sharp ache. No heat. Thank every god that still tolerated him.
Just the dull, deep exhaustion of someone who had wrestled his own pheromones into a leash for hours and then paid for it in a coma that felt medically illegal.
The sheets smelled like clean linen, faint antiseptic from whatever Seven had done, and under it all… Arion. Vetiver, calmer now, softened into a scent lingering in the background of every other sense.
Dean's gaze shifted.
