Silence fell between them. It pressed into the room, settling in the space between their bodies and their breathing, in the place where pride and instinct had been clashing head-on.
Arion's fingers remained at Dean's waist, his hand still beneath his chin, holding him in that enforced closeness. But the tension in him shifted. The predator's stillness softened into something more human.
For the first time since the argument began, Arion exhaled.
His thumb stilled against Dean's jaw. Then, he eased the pressure, he didn't release him entirely, but he was no longer forcing his head back. Giving him the choice to pull away if he wanted.
"I crossed a line," Arion said.
The words were quiet, his authoritarian tone from earlier disappearing.
"I should not have used her name," he continued, voice low, firm, and stripped of menace. "I should not have turned your fear into leverage. I've taken it too far."
Another breath, this time rougher.
"I am sorry."
The admission hung in the air between them. Dominant pheromones are slowly losing their strength with it.
Dean narrowed his eyes, purple irises darkening. "So… you are sorry for using Sylvia as blackmail?"
"Yes."
"Just that?"
"Yes." Arion said again, raising the brow split in two by his scar.
"You are not sorry for how you talked to me?" Dean pressed.
"Ah. So you want me to apologize for saying you're my omega?"
"Yes."
"Mhm. But, Dean, I can't apologize for something I don't regret or believe is wrong."
"For fuck's sake."
"I can clarify," Arion said calmly. "When I said you're mine, I meant it the way one speaks of the future he intends to claim." His gaze softened just a fraction, still intense. "It was adoration, you little bristly omega."
Dean stared at him for a long second, disbelief and irritation warring on his face.
"Adoration," he repeated flatly. "You threaten my best friend, corner me, and call me yours like I'm a piece of territory, and then dress it up as adoration?"
Arion's mouth curved into an unrepentant grin. "I said what I meant. I just didn't say it gently."
"That's not the same thing, and you know it."
Arion's brow lifted again, that scarred line cutting the expression into something sharper. "No. It isn't. But don't pretend you didn't hear the difference between claiming and ownership. I'm not saying you're a thing. I'm saying you're the one I intend to stand with. There's a distinction, even if my phrasing was… unpolished."
Dean let out a frustrated breath. "Unpolished. You make it sound like a bad speech, not a power play."
"It was both," Arion said calmly. "And I apologized for the part that crossed into threat. I won't apologize for wanting you or for saying I see you in my future. Those are not crimes, even if I delivered them like a brute."
Silence stretched again, thinner now, no longer bristling with imminent violence but still taut.
"You really are impossible," Dean muttered.
Arion's gaze softened just a fraction. "And you are infuriatingly sensitive about being wanted."
Dean shot him a look. "I'm sensitive about being cornered."
"Fair," Arion conceded. "Then let me say it properly this time, without teeth."
He paused, choosing the words with care.
"I want you. Not as leverage, a symbol, or something to be bent. But as a partner I intend to claim with consent, not fear."
His eyes held Dean's, steady and unyielding in a different way now.
"That is what I meant. That is what I should have said."
The words settled between them, no longer sharp, no longer bristling. The air in the room slowly loosened, the weight of dominance easing into something that felt… almost ordinary.
Arion's hands were still at Dean's waist, but the grip had softened. The closeness remained, but the threat had drained out of it, leaving only awareness and a low, steady tension.
Dean studied him for a moment, searching his face as if to make sure the apology was real and not another strategic move. Then he exhaled, a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"…Fine," he said at last. "Your apology barely passes."
Arion's mouth curved faintly. "Barely?"
"Don't push it." Dean shifted, finally taking a small step back, reclaiming a sliver of space. "You scared me, you threatened my best friend, and you acted like an overgrown territorial nightmare. One 'I'm sorry' doesn't erase that."
"I'm aware."
Dean hesitated, then added, with pointed emphasis, "So I expect compensation."
Arion lifted a brow. "Compensation."
"Yes." Dean's lips twitched despite himself. "At the very least, you're feeding me properly. Not political buffet nonsense, not some ceremonial portion designed to look impressive and taste like regret. I want actual, decent food."
A pause.
"…And dessert," he added.
For the first time since the confrontation began, something like real amusement flickered in Arion's eyes.
"That," he said, "is your condition for peace?"
"For now." Dean crossed his arms. "Consider it the first step in repairing diplomatic relations."
Arion let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "Very well, little diplomat. I will see to it personally that you are fed."
Dean shot him a look. "Don't make it sound like you're provisioning a siege."
"Old habits," Arion replied, unrepentant. "It is the easiest task, as we are already in a restaurant."
Dean's attention finally drifted past Arion's shoulder, to the muted clink of cutlery, the low murmur of voices, the quiet luxury of the restaurant they were very much still standing in.
His spine went a little rigid.
"…Wait," he said slowly. "People were here. Are here."
His eyes flicked around the room, suddenly hyperaware of tables, waitstaff, and the possibility of witnesses to being pinned, claimed, or nearly threatened into a diplomatic incident.
"You didn't just…" he lowered his voice, "do all that in public, did you?"
Arion followed his gaze, then looked back at him with calm, unreadable certainty.
"No one heard," he said. "No one saw."
Dean's brow furrowed. "That's not how sound works."
"It is when I decide it is," Arion replied evenly. "My pheromones don't only intimidate. They insulate. They bend perception. To everyone else in this room, we've been having a very intense, very quiet conversation at a respectful distance."
A pause.
"They felt the pressure," he added. "Enough to know better than to look too closely. Not enough to understand why."
Dean stared at him. "You blanketed a restaurant."
Arion inclined his head a fraction. "Briefly."
"And your guards?"
"They know the signs," Arion said. "When my aura drops like that, they don't interrupt unless the building is on fire or the Empire is."
Dean let out a breath, half relief, half disbelief. "Of course they do."
The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders finally eased, just a little. Embarrassment crept in where fury had been, a faint flush rising along his cheekbones.
"…I would have actually murdered you if half the capital's elite had seen that," he muttered.
Arion's mouth curved, faint and unapologetic. "Noted."
Dean shot him a look. "I'm serious."
"So am I," Arion replied. "Which is why no one did."
The quiet between them shifted again, no longer a battlefield, not yet peace… something tentative, newly negotiated.
Arion glanced toward the nearest table, where a server was discreetly pretending not to exist.
"Since we are, in fact, in a restaurant," he said, returning to Dean, "shall I begin this compensation with something warm, substantial, and incapable of starting an international incident?"
Dean considered, then nodded once. "Start with that. And if the food is terrible, I'm calling it a violation of the treaty."
Arion's eyes glinted. "I will take that risk."