The door shut behind Nero with a soft click.
Silence followed.
Dean stayed exactly where he was, elbows on the table, face in his hand for one brief second longer than pride allowed. When he lowered his hand, he forced himself back into composure the way he always did: spine straight, expression neutral, shoulders deliberately loose, like none of this had happened and he hadn't just been verbally dissected by three heirs over breakfast.
Arion didn't speak.
He stood behind Dean's chair, unmoving, tall enough that his shadow reached the table even in morning light, his presence a steady weight. He didn't touch Dean again. He didn't reach for the cup. He didn't pace.
He just… watched.
Dean could feel it without looking. He lifted his coffee and took a sip to give his hands something to do.
The bitterness hit his tongue and did nothing to cool the heat crawling under his skin.
"You're being weird," Dean said finally, because the silence was starting to feel like it had edges.
