Chase watches all of it with open interest.
Not sympathy.
Calculation.
His gaze shifts from Marie to Drake to Ragon, then finally—unavoidably—to me.
I don't look away.
I can't.
There's something in his expression now that wasn't there before. Recognition layered over restraint. Professional distance stretched thin by something human beneath it.
He steps a little closer.
Not enough to invade my space. Just enough that I feel the shift in the air between us.
Then his nostrils flare.
The movement is subtle, but I see it.
He scents me. My shirt.
His eyes drop—not to my body, but to the hem of the oversized t-shirt hanging off my shoulder. The corner of his mouth tips up just slightly, an expression that feels dangerously close to amusement.
"That's a good choice," he says lightly.
The words hit me sideways.
I blink. "What?"
"Your shirt. Comfort matters in situations like this. I'm glad it comforts you, even if it's subtle."
My face heats instantly.
I know he recognizes it. I know he smells it. And I know exactly how much trouble he could get into for acknowledging that.
Confusion scrambles my thoughts. Embarrassment. A strange flicker of gratitude.
Ragon notices.
His head snaps toward Chase, eyes narrowing, scent sharpening. "We're not here to discuss attire."
Chase lifts his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "Of course not."
He steps back, the moment slipping neatly back into its box.
Then he taps the tablet.
"Let's proceed."
The screen brightens.
The first frame is wide and ordinary—sunlit concrete, families moving through the zoo, strollers rolling past. The sound is muted, just ambient noise, but it's enough to make my stomach clench.
My chest tightens as recognition sets in.
The gorilla enclosure.
