Dean waited until Arion had showered, changed, eaten something, and confirmed that Victor had no intention of dragging him back to the medical wing before deciding that his husband had enjoyed enough peace.
He had been remarkably patient.
In his opinion.
Arion emerged from their dressing room shortly after nine, wearing fitted black lounge trousers and a soft charcoal shirt with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, falling loosely around his face, and the familiar gold of his eyes had returned completely.
He looked unfairly good.
Dean resented that too.
He sat on the long sofa in their private sitting room, one hand resting over his stomach while a tablet lay abandoned beside him. The terrace doors had been closed against the cool evening air, and the room smelled faintly of the vetiver Arion had released after returning from the medical examination.
Arion approached.
Dean looked him over.
Then he folded his arms.
"Sit."
