Dean stared at the bathroom door.
That question had stripped away the last of the humor.
Arion had noticed something changing for two weeks.
Dean had not.
He looked toward the drawer where the three tests were hidden, then back at his own reflection. His damp blond hair curled slightly around his ears, his cheeks were still flushed from laughing, and nothing about the rest of him suggested his body had already begun rearranging itself around another life.
Outside, Arion tried the handle again.
"Dean."
The concern in his voice settled the matter.
Dean unlocked the door.
He still did not open it immediately.
Apparently that responsibility belonged to Arion.
The door swung inward, and Arion filled the entrance in dark trousers and a black shirt, his winter coat still folded over one arm. He must have returned directly from the administrative complex. Cold air clung faintly to the fabric, mixing with the vetiver already thickening around him.
