“Cold?” he asked, noticing the movement.
“A little,” she admitted. “Do you keep it this cool for the penguins you’re secretly harboring?”
“I can adjust the thermostat.”
“No need,” she said, tucking the throw more securely around her. “I’m fine.”
He studied her for a moment before returning his attention to the screen. Ten minutes later, she felt the cushions shift as he moved closer.
“They’re about to reveal the entire premise is flawed,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “The security system they’re trying to breach can’t actually be bypassed that way.”
She turned to look at him. “Are you secretly a hacker in your spare time?”
“No, but I sit on the board of a cybersecurity firm. The technical consultant for this film clearly took creative liberties.”
“It’s Hollywood,” she said. “Creative liberties are the whole point.”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult to make it accurate,” he insisted. “Here, look—” He leaned closer, gesturing toward the screen as he explained details about authentication protocols that she only half-followed.
What caught her attention instead was the animated way he spoke when discussing a topic he knew well. And his proximity.
Her pulse quickened at his nearness. She could smell his soap, feel the warmth radiating from his body. The casual intimacy of the moment—him in a T-shirt and jeans, explaining movie plot holes while sitting close enough that their knees almost touched.
“You’re not listening,” he said.
“I’m listening. Authentication protocols. Fascinating.”
He gave her a look that said he wasn’t fooled. “My point is the film loses credibility when they get these details wrong.”
“But most people don’t watch thrillers for their technical accuracy. They watch for the story, the tension, the characters.”
“The mistakes distract from those elements.”
“Only if you know they’re wrong. Which most people don’t. It’s like me watching a movie about art forgery—I’d probably miss all kinds of details that would drive an actual art expert crazy.”
He considered this, then nodded slowly. “Fair point.”
She grinned, delighted by this small victory. “Did you admit I was right about a topic? Alert the media.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
As the movie continued, the careful distance between them continued to diminish and by the climactic scene, their shoulders were touching, and she was hyperaware of every point of contact. The brush of his arm against hers when he reached for his water glass. The way he leaned closer when making another commentary about the film’s technical flaws. The steady rhythm of his breathing, which she found oddly soothing.
When he suggested a second movie, she agreed, and during the opening credits, she found herself tucked against his side, his arm draped casually around her shoulders.
This was dangerous territory, she knew. The line between their professional relationship and personal feelings was blurring. But sitting there in his arms, sharing thisquiet morning, she found it impossible to care about the consequences.
When the credits rolled on the second film, neither of them moved to reach for the remote. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.
“That was…” he said, his voice quieter than usual.
“Completely implausible?” she suggested, turning to face him.
“I was going to say entertaining,” he said. “Despite the technical flaws.”
The cashmere throw had slipped during the movie, and she pulled it back up.
His gaze lingered on the borrowed T-shirt before meeting her eyes. The air between them shifted, charged with electricity that had nothing to do with fever or gratitude or pretense.
