Dean woke to heat, weight, and the distinct sense that he was being watched by a creature with far too much fur and entirely too much confidence.
He opened one eye.
Boreas was on the bed.
Not at the foot of it in some respectful, well-trained, aristocratic-dog situation. On it. A vast wall of malamute and imperial shamelessness sprawled across the lower half of the mattress as if the suite, the furniture, and likely half the palace had been constructed for his comfort specifically.
Dean stared at him for a second.
Boreas stared back.
The dog's brown eyes were calm, unbothered, and carrying exactly the same energy Arion sometimes brought to diplomatic meetings: yes, I'm here, yes, I belong here, and no, you do not outrank me enough to complain.
Dean let his head sink deeper into the pillow and looked toward the other side of the bed.
Empty.
The sheets still held heat. Arion had not been gone long.
