"Agreed," Arion said.
Dean should have trusted that less.
He had just stepped out of the shower with damp hair, warm skin, and a robe tied loosely at his waist, which was already a tactical failure. Arion stood in the middle of the bedroom, shirt still buttoned, hair neat, expression calm enough to be suspicious, and gold eyes too focused to be harmless.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You are planning something."
"I am married."
"That is not an answer."
"It explains many things."
"It explains nothing except your audacity."
Arion's mouth curved faintly.
Arion's scent spread slowly, dark and warm, vetiver sinking into the air like sun-heated earth, shaded wood, clean smoke, and something steady enough to lean his whole body against. It slid beneath the lingering steam from Dean's shower, wrapped around the soft linen of the bed, touched the open curtains, and filled the room with a warmth that did not ask Dean to forget.
It only made forgetting easier.
Dean's breath caught.
