Arion decided the second half of their date required considerably more dignity than the first.
That was how Dean found himself seated beside a floor-to-ceiling window in one of the best restaurants in Alamina, several hundred meters above the city, while candlelight reflected across black glass and winter lights spread beneath them in long golden lines.
The restaurant occupied the upper floors of an old hotel overlooking the imperial gardens. Dark walnut divided the dining room into quiet sections, bronze fixtures cast warm light over pale stone tables, and enough space separated each one that voices never carried farther than intended. A pianist played somewhere beyond the central bar, soft enough to disappear beneath conversation.
It was, Dean suspected, Arion's way of restoring order after spending part of the afternoon running through a department store after his own husband.
Dean remained entirely unapologetic.
