The waiter retreated with the kind of discretion that deserved a medal.
Dean watched him go, then looked back at Arion. "He absolutely noticed."
Arion adjusted his crooked tie with no urgency whatsoever. "He was paid to notice nothing."
"That is not comforting."
Arion hummed and reached for Dean's hand again. "I don't see the problem. We are engaged and soon to be married."
Dean felt the familiar pull of him.
That quiet, impossible pull that Arion had on people without raising his voice, closing his fingers too tightly, or doing anything as rude as asking for surrender. He just held out his hand, warm and patient. Dean, who had spent most of his life thinking that resistance was proof of independence, put his fingers in Arion's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps that was the best part.
It was natural.
This folding of his did not feel like defeat anymore. It felt like choosing where to rest.
