Twenty minutes in, the realization hits: I'm actually watching. Not thinking about escape. Not cataloging exits. Watching the screen like a normal person on a normal movie night.
Thirty minutes in, my body starts doing something I don't expect.
It wants to be closer.
Not mentally. My mind is still firmly in the "they kidnapped me" camp.
But my biology is pulling me toward them. Toward Dorian specifically. The primary bond.
A shift. Pretending to get comfortable.
Another.
By the halfway point, I'm in the middle of the sectional. Closer to Dorian than Oakley.
When did I move?
"Cold?" Dorian asks quietly.
Actually, yes. The fever's down, which means I'm actually feeling cold for the first time in weeks.
"A little."
He reaches behind him, pulls out a blanket, offers it.
Taking it, I wrap myself up.
The movie continues. An explosion on screen. Someone shouts. But I'm barely paying attention anymore because my body is doing something insane.
Leaning toward Dorian.
Slightly. Enough that the space between us shrinks from a foot to six inches.
His scent is stronger here. Sandalwood and something else—something that makes my hindbrain purr with recognition.
No. Absolutely not. We are not purring.
But I don't move away.
The next shift is unconscious. My shoulder brushes his.
He goes very still.
Should move. Should put the distance back.
I stay.
Five minutes later, I'm leaning against him.
Not cuddling. Definitely not cuddling. Using him as a backrest. Because the couch arm is too far away and he's right here and my body is tired of fighting.
His arm comes around me slowly. Carefully.
I let him.
Oakley makes a sound—quickly suppressed. When I glance over, he's staring at the TV with laser focus, clearly trying not to look at us.
Corvus's book hasn't turned a page in ten minutes.
