"You are the death of me," Arion said with a deep sigh.

Dean clutched the sheet higher with all the dignity left in the ruins of his life. "You counted at me."

"You locked me out."

"You threatened the door."

"You were nesting alone."

Dean opened his mouth.

The argument should have come easily. Usually, words arrived for him like weapons offered by a loyal armory. Unfortunately, the moment Arion stepped inside, the room changed.

Not visually.

The blankets were still in disarray. The stolen shirts were still visible. The pillows still looked like evidence of a siege conducted by a half-feral omega with too much pride and no reasonable blood circulation.

But Arion was inside now.

That was the problem.

His scent crossed the room before he did, warm vetiver threaded with soap, worry, and the unmistakable darker edge of an alpha holding himself very carefully in place. It wrapped around Dean’s overheated senses and made the entire world shrink down to one simple, terrible thought.

’Alpha. My alpha.’

’In the room. In the nest. In the bed.’

Dean swallowed.

Arion’s eyes sharpened at once. "Dean?"

Dean hated that he heard it. The change. The shift in Dean’s breathing. The way the rage had burned through too quickly and left something softer, hotter, and far less defensible behind.

He wanted to say something cutting.

He wanted to accuse Arion of emotional violence, door-related tyranny, and criminal competence.

Instead, his mind offered him a single command with the elegance of a brick through glass.

’Take the alpha to bed.’

Dean blinked slowly.

’Absolutely not.’

His body ignored him.

’Have the mate take you in his arms.’

Oh, this was worse than shame.

This was biology with no education.

Arion took one careful step closer. "Talk to me."

Dean glared at him. "You want to hear what I’m thinking?"

Arion took another step, the scent of him now clearly invading the large room, clinging to every surface available. "Yes."

Dean had decided that if Arion wanted to poke the omega in heat, who was he to stop him? "I want to fuck you."

Arion stopped moving.

The air in the room tightened, his control pulling hard around something darker and hotter underneath. Dean watched the exact moment the sentence landed. Golden eyes darkened. His jaw flexed once. The scent of vetiver thickened in the nest until Dean felt it settle low in his stomach like heat answering heat.

"Oh," Arion said softly.

Dean immediately wanted to bite him for sounding pleased.

"This is your fault," Dean informed him.

"My fault?"

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

"You came in here looking concerned and competent." Dean pointed vaguely with the hand not clutching the sheet. "Very manipulative behavior."

Arion took another slow step closer and reached for Dean’s waist, pulling him flush against him. Dean hissed immediately at the contact, overheated skin meeting the rough warmth of Arion’s clothes and body now that the sheet had slipped uselessly to the floor.

His entire nervous system lit up like a disaster report.

Dean grabbed Arion’s face with one hand and pushed him away.

Which meant not really away.

Mostly just far enough to glare at him properly.

"We had sex the other night," Dean demanded, visibly offended by his own biology. "Why didn’t this happen then? Why now?"

Arion’s grin widened slowly beneath Dean’s palm.

"You don’t like having sex with me?" he asked.

His arm tightened around Dean’s waist with deliberate cruelty.

Dean made a strangled sound.

"That is not what I said."

"It sounded very close."

"It sounded nothing like that."

Arion tilted his head slightly into Dean’s hand, golden eyes bright with unbearable amusement. "Interesting. Because from my perspective, you locked yourself in our room, built a nest, threatened the door, then informed me you wanted to fuck me the moment I entered."

Dean’s face burned hotter, but the heat got him stronger, and the little filter he was hanging onto earlier for dear life had disappeared into the void. He moved his hand and brushed Arion’s grin with his thumb very slowly.

"Well, I do, and I’m not ashamed of it." Dean pressed his thumb harder onto the oddly soft lips of Arion’s. "Will you take responsibility, my lovely mate?" He asked with all the sin in the world in those words.

Arion went completely still.

Dean’s thumb remained pressed against Arion’s mouth, slow and possessive in a way Dean would absolutely blame on biology later.

Maybe.

Arion’s eyes darkened further.

"Dean," he said quietly.

Oh, that tone was unfair.

Dean’s pulse jumped hard enough to feel embarrassing.

"No," Dean muttered immediately, because survival instincts were still alive somewhere under the heat. "Do not suddenly sound gentle after threatening structural damage."

Arion’s arm tightened around his waist again, pulling him closer until there was barely space left between them. Dean felt the heat of him everywhere now: through the fabric of Arion’s shirt, through the heavy alpha scent filling the nest, through the steady strength in the arm holding him, like Dean belonged there.

Which, biologically speaking, he apparently did.

Arion lowered his head slightly, lips brushing the inside of Dean’s wrist where he still held his face.

"You asked me to take responsibility," Arion murmured.

Dean shivered violently.

"That was rhetorical."

"No," Arion said calmly. "It really wasn’t."

Dean’s mind, already hazy with heat, narrowed into one overwhelming impulse.

’Mate. Touch him. Closer.’

Before he could second-guess himself, he surged forward and kissed Arion hard, all desperate heat and stripped-down instinct. The sound Arion made against his mouth was low and immediate, like restraint snapping somewhere deep in his chest.

Arion kissed him back without hesitation.

His hand slid into Dean’s hair at once, fingers tightening just enough to tilt Dean’s head into a deeper angle while his other arm locked around Dean’s waist possessively. Dean felt the strength in that hold and melted into it with humiliating speed.

The kiss turned messy almost instantly.

Dean tasted warmth, coffee from earlier, the familiar grounding scent of vetiver wrapped around him until he could barely think through it. His hands roamed desperately over Arion’s shoulders and chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt because suddenly fabric felt like a personal insult.

His overheated skin ached for contact badly enough that it bordered on painful.

Arion caught one of Dean’s wrists gently before the ruined buttons became a casualty of heat-induced impatience.

"Easy," he murmured against Dean’s mouth, though his own breathing had gone rough.

Dean glared at him with pupils blown wide from heat and want. "No."

Arion’s eyes darkened immediately at the tone.

"No?" he repeated softly.

Dean kissed him again instead of answering properly, pushing him backward a step toward the bed. The nest of blankets shifted behind them, carrying both their scents now, and the instinctive satisfaction that hit Dean from that alone was almost enough to make him dizzy.

"Arion," Dean gasped against his lips. "Now."