Arion's expression didn't change into a smile. Instead, his facial lines appeared to deepen, and the golden hue of his eyes darkened as they tracked Dean's mouth movement. He didn't pull Dean closer right away. His hands stayed where they were, locked in place, firm but strangely still, as if he were afraid that any more pressure would make Dean break again.
"I was told," Arion said, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that usually preceded a total loss of composure, "that you needed 'space to process.' Lucas and Trevor were quite clear. They seemed to think my presence was... counterproductive to your physical recovery."
"Lucas and Trevor are politicians," Dean snapped, his fingers tightening in the black fabric of Arion's shirt. "Since when do you take medical advice from my father?"
"Since I felt your ribs give way under my weight, Dean."
