The season ended without glory.

Dean appreciated that.

Glory usually meant someone had died loudly enough for poets to become unbearable.

Instead, the final report used words like ’contained,’ ’acceptable losses,’ ’projected strain,’ ’stabilized corridors,’ and ’civilian annexes untouched.’ The beasts had been pushed back beyond the reinforced restricted perimeter. The pheromone wall held where it counted. The insects—zombie flies, no matter what Hendrik’s reports insisted—never reached the beta annexes, never touched the auxiliary shelters, and never crossed into the regular alpha and omega corridors.

No one important died.

No one unnecessarily died either, which was rarer and therefore worth more.

Sebastian held the north with perfect, irritating control.

Nero burned south, with Hale close enough to threaten him into discipline.

Thomas and Andrea kept central so stable that Hendrik called them "reassuring," which, from Hendrik, sounded almost indecent.

No one was killed by emotional warfare.

The bar had been low enough to trip over, but apparently everyone had managed to step across it.

By the time Dean and Arion returned to the capital residence, Dean had mud in places he refused to name, a bruise across his shoulder from vehicle armor, two overused neutralization cycles recorded in Hendrik’s final notes, and a hatred for field disinfectant that had become nearly spiritual.

The house smelled wrong at first.

Dean stood in the entrance hall for exactly three seconds before deciding the ceremony had lost its privileges.

"I am going to bed," he said.

A steward paused halfway through bowing.

Arion removed one glove, tugging each finger with slow movements. "You need to eat first."

Dean turned his head. "Do I look like a man interested in negotiation?"

"You look like a man about to fall asleep standing."

"Excellent. Then we agree on the destination."

"Dean."

"No." Dean lifted one hand. "I have eaten ration bars; field soup; something Hale sent that may have been Sahan medicine or a legal challenge; and three meals approved by Hendrik, which means joy was removed during preparation. I want a bath and the bed."

Arion’s mouth curved. "Our bed?"

Dean’s face warmed immediately.

Traitorous body.

Exhaustion had apparently weakened border control.

"The bed," he corrected.

Arion’s smile deepened. "Of course."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You are too pleased for someone still wearing mud."

"I am pleased because you said ’home’ in the carriage."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I said we are almost there."

"You said almost home."

Dean stared at him.

Arion stared back, golden-eyed and insufferably calm.

Dean turned toward the stairs. "Field trauma. You misheard."

"I did not."

"You were concussed by sentiment."

"I was not."

"Then become concussed quietly."

Arion laughed, low and warm, and followed him up.

The bath was a blur of heat, steam, and the deeply humiliating discovery that Dean’s body had been held together for days by spite, adrenaline, and Arion’s ability to look worried without saying the word ’worried.’ The moment the water touched him, everything else gave way.

Mud loosened.

His muscles remembered they were allowed to complain.

His hands stopped being tools and became hands again.

Arion helped wash the grime from his hair, and Dean only threatened him twice, which showed remarkable personal growth.

"You are quiet," Arion said.

"I am conserving insults."

"For later?"

"For survival."

Arion’s fingers worked carefully through the damp strands. "You did well."

Dean closed his eyes. "If you praise me while I am too tired to defend myself, I will remember."

Arion’s hands paused for a moment but said nothing.

Then continued more gently.

Dean let the silence stay.

After the bath, after clean clothes, after a tray appeared with real food that did not taste like military obedience, Dean made it as far as the bedroom before something in his chest loosened so abruptly he had to stop.

The bed was there.

Large. Familiar. Soft in a way that felt indecent after field cots and armored vehicle seats. The sheets were fresh, the windows cracked open to let in late evening air from the capital, and the whole room carried the quiet, unmistakable scent of a place that had waited.

Their place.

His and Arion’s.

Dean hated how important it was for him... Well, not entirely; he was actually loving being home.

Arion came to stand behind him. "Too much?"

Dean swallowed.

"No."

A pause.

Then, because honesty had apparently survived summer and decided to become a public nuisance, he added, "Just enough."

Arion did not touch him immediately.

That was why Dean turned and caught his hand.

Arion looked down at their joined fingers.

The ring was back on his hand now, dark against clean skin, no longer hidden beneath armor. Dean’s thumb brushed over it before he could stop himself.

Arion’s breath changed.

Dean looked away. "Do not make a speech."

"I wasn’t going to."

"You were thinking one."

"Yes."

"Suppress it."

"With difficulty."

Dean huffed and pulled him toward the bed.

Arion let himself be pulled, which was ridiculous because he was larger, stronger, and could have probably stopped a charging beast with one shoulder if sufficiently offended.

Dean sat first, then collapsed backward with none of the dignity expected from someone who had been called Your Highness by terrified alpha agents for an entire season.

The mattress accepted him like a political ally.

"Oh," Dean said.

Arion’s laugh was soft. "Good?"

"I may marry the bed instead."

Arion’s laugh deepened, a low rumble that vibrated through Dean’s bones. "I believe the bed would accept, but it lacks certain qualities you’ve come to appreciate."

Dean cracked one eye open. "Such as?"

"The ability to wash your hair. The capacity to worry about you from a distance. The willingness to stand between you and Hendrik’s nutritional requirements."

Dean’s mouth curved despite himself. "You’re selling yourself well."

Arion knelt on the bed beside him, movements fluid and deliberate. "I have certain advantages."

Dean watched him, the exhaustion still present but now joined by something else. Something warmer. "You’re still wearing too many clothes."

Arion’s fingers went to the collar of his shirt. "Is that an order?"

"It’s a suggestion from a man who may soon be engaged to furniture."

Arion’s smile was soft as he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, revealing skin that had been too long absent from Dean’s sight. "I can’t allow that."

Dean’s eyes followed each revealed inch. "Why not?"

"Because I have plans for this evening that require your full attention."

Dean shifted, the mattress moving beneath him. "My attention is currently divided between you and the possibility of never moving again."

Arion leaned down, bracing one hand beside Dean’s head. "I can work with that."

Their first kiss was gentle—too gentle, Dean thought vaguely, until he remembered his split lip from the last engagement. Arion’s mouth on his was careful and precise, avoiding the tender spot but somehow saying everything Dean hadn’t let himself think during the campaign.

Dean’s fingers tangled in Arion’s hair, pulling him closer. "I’m not that fragile."

Arion pulled back slightly, his golden eyes dark in the dim light. "I know."

"Then stop treating me like it."

Arion’s mouth curved against his. "As you wish."

The second kiss was different—deeper, more claiming, with none of the hesitation of the first. Dean responded with equal intensity, weeks of danger dissolving into this moment. His body, running on nothing but survival for weeks, suddenly remembered it had other things to do.

Arion’s hands moved with familiarity, mapping Dean’s body with a reverence that made something in Dean’s chest ache.

"You’re thinking too loud," Dean murmured against Arion’s mouth.

"I’m thinking that I missed this."

"Pathetic."

"Completely."

Dean arched as Arion’s mouth traveled down his neck, teeth scraping lightly against sensitive skin. "I missed you too."

Arion paused, lifting his head. "Say that again." 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

"No."

Arion’s laugh was warm against his skin. "Liar."

Dean’s hands tightened in his hair. "Stop talking and get back to what you were doing."