Two days later, Dean decided that civilization had failed him in the simple, practical sense that civilization still expected people to stand upright after a suppressed heat, a delayed rut, a royal wedding, a temple disaster, prophecy, emotional collapse, and Arion deciding that their honeymoon had been interrupted long enough.
Dean was not standing upright.
Dean was draped across the long couch in the private lounge, half buried in one of Arion's loose shirts, which was too large on him in every possible direction and therefore perfect. One sleeve had fallen off his shoulder. The hem reached far enough down his thighs that it suggested modesty without committing to it, and the thin fabric shifted every time he moved in a way that made several things no one had asked about unclear.
Arion had been looking at him for ten minutes.
Dean knew because he had counted.
Badly.
He was too tired to count well.
"You are staring," Dean said.
