"I am too tired."
Arion’s mouth paused just above Dean’s skin.
For one dangerous second, Dean thought he might actually behave.
Then Arion looked up at him, gold eyes warm with the kind of amusement that had ended kingdoms, caused diplomatic incidents, and personally ruined Dean’s peace several times since their wedding.
"Too tired for what?" Arion asked in a completely innocent tone.
Dean stared at him.
The audacity needed a moment to settle into the room.
"Do not," Dean said.
"I only asked a question."
"You know exactly what you asked."
"I know exactly what I did not ask."
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
Arion remained crouched beside the couch, one hand still near the collar, his hair falling slightly forward, his robe loose enough to make Dean resent the existence of eyesight. He looked unfairly composed for a man who had spent two days in the same biological disaster and had absolutely no right to look as if he could begin another one.
Except Dean knew him now.
Too well, unfortunately.
Arion’s shoulders were relaxed, but not untouched by exhaustion. There was a faint tightness at the corner of his mouth when he shifted, the kind he hid from guards, servants, ministers, priests, and apparently husbands who had been too distracted by his open robe to notice at first.
Dean noticed now.
"You are sore," he said.
Arion blinked.
Dean pointed weakly at him. "Do not pretend you are not."
"I did not say anything."
"You moved like your entire pelvis filed a formal complaint."
Arion went very still.
Dean’s smile arrived slowly.
"Oh, no," Dean said, delighted despite the fact that he was practically part of the couch now. "You are sore."
Arion’s expression remained calm.
"That is an exaggeration."
"It is not." Dean pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately regretted it, and collapsed back into the cushion with an offended sound. "I would mock you properly, but my body has resigned."
Arion’s mouth curved.
Dean glared. "Do not smile. This is serious."
"It sounds serious."
"You are sore and still teasing me about another round?"
"I did not say another round."
"You implied it."
"I asked what you were too tired for."
"You are a menace."
"Yes."
Dean shot his husband a look that could melt half of the Fitzgeralt Mountains.
"That was not an invitation to agree."
Arion kissed the skin just above the collar again.
Dean’s brain paused.
For several seconds, he was no longer capable of legal speech, moral judgment, or remembering the argument he had been winning very recently.
Arion knew.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were soft with terrible satisfaction.
Dean reached blindly for the cushion and tried to hit him with it.
He missed.
The cushion fell uselessly to the floor.
Dean stared at it.
Then at Arion.
"I hate this body," Dean muttered.
"I love it."
Arion rose slowly, with the same careful dignity that men used to pretend their hips weren’t sore, and sat on the edge of the couch next to Dean.
The couch dipped.
Dean slid toward him because gravity had apparently joined Arion’s side.
Arion’s hand came to his waist, steadying him before the movement could pull too sharply at anything already aching.
"Careful," he murmured.
Dean looked down at his hand.
Then back up at him.
"You are the one who caused half of this."
"Only half?"
"Do not look proud."
Arion’s thumb moved slowly over the fabric of his own shirt where it covered Dean’s waist. The touch was light. Almost absent. Absolutely destructive.
"I am not asking for another round," Arion said.
Dean searched his face.
Arion let him.
No smirk now, only warmth, exhaustion, and that hungry devotion he had stopped hiding after their bodies had finally dragged them into the honeymoon they should have been allowed from the beginning.
"I could not manage another round," Arion admitted.
Dean stared.
Then he sat up too quickly out of pure scandalized joy and immediately regretted every choice he had ever made.
"Ah," he said, folding forward.
Arion’s hands were on him at once. "Dean."
"I am fine," Dean wheezed.
"You are not."
"I am emotionally fine. Physically, I am a collapsed government."
Arion’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Dean lifted one finger. "But you admitted it."
Arion paused.
Dean’s eyes brightened.
"Arion."
"Yes," Arion said, as if confessing defeat before a tribunal.
Dean’s delight was immense.
It would have been more impressive if he had not been half folded into Arion’s chest while wearing only his shirt and a collar, but dignity had left Ylico two days ago and probably would not return until after breakfast.
"You are human," Dean whispered, delighted.
Arion looked at him.
"I am sorry to disappoint you."
"No, this is wonderful. I was starting to think your stamina was a state secret funded by three ministries."
"It may still be."
Dean poked his chest. "No. You are sore. The myth is broken."
Arion caught his hand and kissed his finger.
Dean’s delight became something much less stable.
"That is cheating," he said.
"I know."
"You cannot kiss me every time you start losing."
"I can."
"No."
"I have been successful so far."
Dean tried to glare.
It did not work because Arion was looking at him the way he looked at the collar. As if Dean were something precious and alive and entrusted to his hands. As if the ruined, exhausted mess Dean had become across two days was not ridiculous, but beloved.
That was the problem.
Arion loved him like this.
Not only composed. Not only sharp-tongued. Not only furious at gods, temples, alphas, prophecies, and poorly timed phone calls. He loved Dean boneless on a couch, hair ruined, skin warm, voice hoarse, barely dressed in stolen clothes, too tired to defend himself properly but still somehow ready to argue over phrasing.
Arion loved all of it.
Dean could see it.
The realization was dangerous in a way no prophecy had managed to be.
"You like me like this," Dean said.
Arion’s gaze softened.
"Yes."
Dean swallowed.
"I look terrible. I look like something dragged out of a royal scandal."
"You look like my husband."
Dean’s throat tightened again.
Arion saw that too, because apparently he had been put on this earth to notice every embarrassing emotional response Dean possessed.
His hand rose to the collar, not adjusting this time, only resting there with two fingers against the lower edge.
"I like that you are tired," Arion said quietly. "Not because you are weak. You are never weak. I like that you stopped fighting rest. I like that you let me take care of you. I like that you are in my shirt and wearing my collar and insulting me from my couch as if you own every part of this room."
Dean tried to answer.
Nothing came.
Arion leaned closer.
"And I like that you are comfortable enough to be shameless with me."
Dean’s face heated.
"I am not shameless."
Arion’s eyes flicked down.
The shirt had shifted again.
Dean followed his gaze.
Remembered, with a sharp and catastrophic clarity, that Arion still did not know whether there was anything beneath it.
There was not.
Dean pulled the hem down with the speed of a man protecting state secrets.
Arion’s mouth curved.
Dean pointed at him. "No."
"I said nothing."
"You thought something."
"I think many things."
"Think quieter."
"I am trying."
"You are not trying."
"I am trying very hard," Arion said, his voice lower now, "not to think about it."
Dean’s pulse jumped.
The room warmed by several degrees.
Then Arion inhaled slowly and leaned back, putting a careful inch of space between them with the expression of a man making an executive decision for both their survival.