Arion did not pretend he was innocent.
Dean's awareness hit him first. That particular tension in the air that dominant alphas learned to recognize long before instinct crossed into hunger. It was the same pull as the night before, sharper now, more defined. As if the world itself had quietly agreed to point him in one direction and wait.
So when Arion stepped onto the balcony railing and found Dean there, pale against the stone, shoulders stiff with the realization that he had, once again, miscalculated reality, Arion merely inclined his head.
"Good morning," he said calmly.
Dean stared at him like a man reconsidering every choice that had led him to this exact moment, including being born.
"You-" Dean stopped, inhaled, and tried again. "Do you have a map of the palace, or do you just… sense your way to places you shouldn't be?"
Arion's mouth curved slowly, like he was trying his best not to grin. "I was told this wing was off-limits."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I wanted to see you," Arion replied evenly.
Arion did not look away when he said it.
The honesty of it landed harder than any calculated answer could have. Dean blinked, visibly caught between outrage, embarrassment, and the deeply inconvenient realization that no one had ever said something like that to him without an agenda wrapped in five layers of diplomacy.
"Oh," Dean said faintly. "That's… not subtle."
"I was not aiming for subtle," Arion replied.
Dean retreated, and his back hit the marble rail behind him. "You obtained what you wanted the other night. I said yes to the engagement. Why do you want to see me like this when you can ask for an official meeting?"
Arion did not follow him when Dean retreated. He stopped where he was, giving the space deliberately, as if proving a point without saying it out loud.
"Because an official meeting would not tell me what I needed to know," Arion said calmly.
Dean's fingers curled against the cold marble rail. "And this does?"
"Yes."
Dean huffed, sharp and disbelieving. "You climbed palace walls for vibes."
"I climbed palace walls because you are different when you are not being observed," Arion corrected. "Because in a meeting room you would be composed, careful, and polite. You would give me what the Empire expects of you."
Dean waited for the rest, his purple eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"And meeting you while your parents are in the room doesn't tell me much about you either."
Here it is.' Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest. "They are right, though. You're a lot older than me."
Arion did not bristle. He did not correct him. He didn't even pretend the statement hadn't hit.
"Yes," he said simply. "I am."
Dean blinked. That was… not the argument he'd prepared for.
"You're not going to deny it?" he asked, incredulous. "Or tell me age is just a number? Or quote some historical precedent where this went very well?"
Arion's gaze stayed steady. "I do not insult people by lying to them when the truth is obvious."
Dean scoffed. "You say that like it's reassuring."
"Well, your parents are among the best examples if you want me to argue this. Trevor is seven years older, isn't he?
Arion's mouth twitched so lightly that most people would miss it if they weren't already watching him too closely. He leaned back against the rail, posture relaxed, feet crossed as if this were a casual terrace conversation and not a diplomatic minefield.
"It is still true," he said mildly.
Dean made a sound halfway between a groan and a curse. "You cannot keep using my parents as precedent. That feels illegal."
"I am using available data," Arion replied. "Your family values consent, agency, and stubborn compatibility over optics. I respect that."
Dean dragged a hand down his face. "I hate that you've clearly read everyone like a briefing document."
"I had a month," Arion said. "And very little sleep."
"That explains… nothing, actually."
Arion's gaze lingered on him a second longer than necessary. There was something undeniably amused there now, carefully contained, like a secret he was enjoying far too much to share outright.
Dean noticed.
Which was, unfortunately, the problem.
'Stop looking at his face,' Dean told himself immediately and uselessly.
The dark hair, the golden eyes that missed nothing, the scar that cut just sharply enough across his cheek to ruin any chance of him looking harmless. The way he stood, like the world would move if he asked it to.
Dean swallowed.
"This is not happening," he muttered.
Arion tilted his head. "What is not happening?"
"I am not," Dean said firmly, "falling for the fact that you look like you walked out of a very expensive military portrait."
Arion's brow lifted a fraction, a grin forming on his face. "You like me."
Dean's eyes widened, realizing what he said. "No."
Arion's grin lingered, slow and entirely too pleased with itself.
"That was not the denial you think it was," he said mildly.
Dean straightened immediately, posture snapping into something defensive and very Fitzgeralt. "It absolutely was."
"You denied the conclusion," Arion replied. "Not the observation."
Dean opened his mouth, then stopped. His jaw tightened. "You are extrapolating."
"I am listening," Arion corrected again, clearly enjoying the distinction. "You volunteered an aesthetic assessment under stress. That usually means the stress is touching something personal."
Dean stared at him in disbelief. "Do all Alaminian princes come with a complimentary psychological evaluation, or is this just your hobby?"
Arion leaned his shoulder back against the rail, mirroring Dean's earlier stance with infuriating ease. "I am very thorough about matters that concern me."
Dean crossed his arms. "I am not a matter."
Arion's voice hit something inside Dean's mind that he refused to admit. "You are the matter."
He scoffed reflexively, because scoffing was easier than admitting his pulse had just done something traitorous. "Aren't you a little too dramatic?"
Arion did not answer, he simply watched him, golden eyes patient in a way that suggested he'd already accounted for this reaction.
Dean took advantage of the silence and pushed off the rail, turning away with intentional indifference. He needed distance. Arion was handsome, objectively so, universally acknowledged, and so handsome that there were fan groups of him everywhere. That didn't mean anything. Everyone saw it. It wasn't personal.
He took two steps toward the doors.
His wrist was caught mid-stride.
Dean froze.
Arion's fingers closed around his wrist with calm certainty, warm against his skin, thumb resting right over his pulse. Dean could feel the prince right behind him now. A damn wall made of muscles and pheromones strong enough to kill an army.
"Dean," Arion said quietly.
That was worse than hearing his title.
"Let go," Dean said, breath tight.
"I will," Arion replied evenly. "After this."
Dean turned his head just enough to glare at him. "You really don't understand the concept of easing people into things."
"I do," Arion said. "I am choosing not to."
His grip did not tighten, but his thumb shifted, pressing Dean's pulse. "You are my omega."