"You look awful," Dean said.
Arion's lips curved. "You always say that when you're happy to see me."
Dean's fingers tightened in his coat. "I am not happy to see you. I am assessing your physical condition and finding it wanting."
"Wanting?" Arion's hand slid from Dean's waist to the small of his back, pressing him closer until there was no space left between them. "I can remedy that."
Dean's breath hitched. "You smell like jet fuel and imperial decisions." He paused, just long enough to make the next line land properly. "Where are my pastries?"
Arion stared at him.
Then, because Dean was impossible and because loving him had apparently destroyed the last of his ability to remain consistently severe, he laughed.
"They're coming," Arion said, laughter still lingering at the edge of his voice.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a man who has arrived without them."
"I arrived with priorities."
"I was one of the priorities."
"You were the first one."
