Arion's expression did not change.
That, more than anything, should have warned Dean.
Because the prince held the look for one beat too long - thoughtful, grave, as if receiving tactical feedback from a superior officer - and then, instead of stepping back like a normal man who had just been told he was catastrophically bad at courtship, he simply… folded.
Right into Dean.
It was so abrupt and so unceremonious that Dean had to grab his shoulders on instinct to keep them both upright as Arion returned, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, to the exact state Dean had already diagnosed days earlier.
Barnacle.
Arion tucked himself against Dean's shoulder and throat as if that settled the matter. One arm wrapped around Dean's waist, then the other, clinging with the unwavering conviction of a man who had listened carefully, accepted the terms, and chosen to interpret them in the most inconvenient way possible.
Dean stared at the wall over Arion's shoulder.
Then he laughed.
