Dean's fingers curled once at his sides.
The instinct to dodge was still there, alive and obnoxious, pacing the inside of his skull with a clipboard and a list of safer responses. He could call Arion dramatic again. He could make a joke about treaties and national interest and pheromone compatibility and all the polite machinery that had shoved them toward each other long before either of them had time to decide what they wanted.
He could survive this conversation by turning it into politics.
The problem was that Arion was standing too close for lies to feel elegant.
Dean let out a shaky breath, the sound barely audible in the quiet room. He dropped his gaze from Arion's eyes, focusing instead on the high collar of the prince's uniform and the severe line of his jaw. It was easier to look at the armor than the man inside it.
"Yes," Dean finally said, the word so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I like you as a person."
