The shower washed the sweat of panic off his skin but changed absolutely nothing underneath it.
Dean stood under the heat until the steam fogged the mirror and the noise of the water filled the space so completely it could've been its own kind of insulation. He let it run over his face, his hair, and his shoulders, and he breathed like a person who was trying to convince his body that the world hadn't just tilted.
When he finally stepped out, the air felt colder than it should have. The suite was still dark beyond the bathroom doorway, the palace still quiet in that old, expensive way that suggested the building itself approved of discretion.
Dean dried off, slower than necessary, because speed felt too much like pressure, and pressure felt too much like Caelan's shadow.
Then he dressed.
He pulled on a soft T-shirt - plain, worn-in, the kind Lucas had always insisted he was allowed to have even when the world wanted him dressed like a symbol - and a simple pair of trousers.
