Dean pressed closer, burying his face against Arion's chest. "I love you too, but if I get pregnant from this, I'm going to exile you on a desert island never to be seen again."
Arion's large hand paused on his back.
Only for a second.
Then it resumed, slow and soothing over Dean's spine, as if Dean had not just threatened international abandonment during aftercare.
"That seems excessive," Arion said, tone mild, but his golden eyes filled with amusement.
Dean lifted his head just enough to glare at him.
The glare was weak.
His hair was a mess, his cheeks still warm, the collar at his throat slightly shifted to one side, and the rest of him had the boneless heaviness of someone who had lost several arguments to biology, marriage, and Arion's unacceptable stamina.
"It is not excessive," Dean said. "It is proportionate."
"To pregnancy?"
"To your smugness."
Arion's mouth curved.
Dean pointed at him with one tired finger. "See? Desert island."
"I would follow you back."
