The bedroom was darker than the main room had been, lit only by the pale rectangle of the terrace doors and the small lamp Dean had left burning beside their bed. Arion set him down near the edge of the mattress but didn't step back.
Dean looked up at him.
The sight of his husband still did something complicated to his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the bond mark humming at his nape and everything to do with the way Arion was watching him now. Focused. Patient in a way that suggested patience was a temporary courtesy.
"You're staring," Dean said.
"Yes."
"Any particular reason?"
Arion's hand came up to Dean's jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. "You're still dressed."
"An oversight."
"I agree."
Dean reached for the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head. Dropped it somewhere to the left. Didn't care where.
Arion's gaze traveled slowly down his chest.
"Better?" Dean asked.
"Getting there."
