Dean's last kiss lingered in the air between them, carried by the scents of vetiver and minty sweet lemonade.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Arion stayed close, hands still at Dean's hips, holding him with the peaceful assurance of someone who didn't need to prove anything to the world but still wanted the world to understand.
Dean's breath was uneven. His cheeks were warm. His pride was bruised and annoyed about it.
Arion's gaze stayed on Dean's mouth for a beat longer than was polite.
Then Arion exhaled slowly, like he was forcing the jealousy back into its cage with sheer discipline.
And finally, he moved.
He lifted Dean down from the table as easily as he'd put him there and set him onto the wooden floor.
Dean's feet found the ground with a soft thud, and he neatened his shirt in spite of still being without a crease.
Arion remained close, leaving little space between them, but his hands moved away from Dean's hips and toward Dean's forearms.
