Don't care.
Because I'm warm for the first time in weeks. And Dorian smells good. And my body is melting into his like muscle memory, like blocking I've rehearsed a thousand times until it's automatic.
I hate this.
But I'm not moving.
His hand settles on my hip. Thumb tracing small circles through the blanket. Not sexual. Touch. Connection.
My eyes drift closed.
"Tired?" he murmurs.
"Mmm."
"You can sleep. I've got you."
Should terrify me. Should send me running.
But I'm so warm. And so comfortable. And so tired of fighting my own biology.
"For a minute," I say.
"Okay."
Eyes closed.
The movie plays on. Voices and explosions and soundtrack swelling. All of it distant now.
All I can feel is Dorian's chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. His arm secure around me. His scent wrapping me in safety my mind knows is false but my body accepts anyway.
"She's asleep," Oakley whispers.
"I know."
"Dorian—"
"Don't. Let her rest."
Silence.
Then Corvus: "Her temperature's down. Pulse is steady. The proximity is working."
"I can feel it," Dorian says quietly. "The bond. It's stronger when she's close."
"Is she...?" Oakley trails off.
"Getting better? Yeah. Slowly. But yeah."
More silence.
Should tell them I'm awake. That I can hear them.
But I don't want to break whatever this is.
This almost-normal moment where I'm not dying and they're not monsters and we're existing together without script or blocking or performance.
"Her heat's coming," Corvus says, clinical as ever. "Soon. Maybe a week."
