Eventually, my attention drifts toward the screen. Jasper chuckles once at a scene that's supposed to be funny, the sound low and restrained.
I glance over without thinking.
He isn't looking at me. He's watching the movie, relaxed, present.
That's when I realize my shoulders have lowered.
My jaw doesn't ache from clenching.
I'm comfortable.
The thought lands like a fragile thing in my hands.
Halfway through the movie, a chill creeps over me.
At first, it's subtle—just a shiver that runs along my arms. I rub my palms over my thighs. But the cold deepens quickly.
I shiver again, this time visibly. My teeth almost click.
Jasper's head turns immediately.
"You're cold."
"I'm fine," I answer automatically, too fast.
He shifts, reaching for the blanket folded over the back of the couch. He holds it out, careful.
"Here."
I shake my head, small and instinctive. "No. It's okay."
It's not about the blanket. Not really.
It's about what accepting it would mean—being cared for, being noticed, taking up space in a way that feels dangerous.
Jasper pauses, then lowers the blanket back without argument. He doesn't push.
Afew seconds pass.
Then, slowly, he shifts again and extends his arm along the back of the couch—palm open, elbow bent, creating a quiet space beside him.
A silent invitation.
My entire body locks.
Every instinct I have collides at once. My omega side stirs immediately, yearning toward warmth and alpha comfort like it's a basic need. My rational mind screams warnings—don't. don't trust this. don't forget you've been hurt.
My heart pounds hard enough that it feels loud.
Jasper doesn't look at me. He keeps his gaze on the screen, posture perfectly still, arm offered but not reaching.
The choice is mine.
That's the problem.
If he took me, if he pulled me in, I'd have something to fight against. Something clear.
This is softer. This is worse.
