Dean came out of the bathroom clean enough to qualify as a new person.
His hair was damp and finally tamed into something that suggested sanity. His collar sat where it belonged. The faint tension in his shoulders had eased - not because anything was actually fine, but because hot water was a temporary religion and Dean had always been good at worshipping practicality.
He smelled like soap.
Not vetiver or panic or the afterimage of a crown prince's control fraying at the edges and Dean stepping into the storm because now that was his job.
His thoughts remained focused on how good Arion looked and how much he wanted to do it again. Was he just horny after using his pheromones? Maybe, but he didn't want to think too hard about it. Dean still loved Arion's face, body, and, most importantly, his personality, which had the emotional intelligence of a rock.
Sylvia looked up from the armchair the second he entered the sitting room.
