The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, and Arion turned.
Dean saw that particular stillness in his husband's shoulders, the way his dark-gold eyes had gone half-lidded and watchful. The look Arion wore when he'd decided something and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
"You planned this," Dean said.
Arion's expression didn't change. He reached for the cuff of his sleeve and began rolling it slowly.
"I planned nothing."
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're about to—"
Vetiver hit him.
Not the lingering trace Arion carried daily—the warm, earthy note that clung to his skin and clothes and the pillows Dean pressed his face into when Arion left early for meetings.
This was deliberate.
A flood of it, concentrated and rising from Arion's wrists and throat as he stood there rolling his other sleeve, the scent curling through the bedroom like smoke finding its way under a door.
Dean's mouth went dry.
