The TV flickers to life, painting half the room in cold blue light. Alex leans back against the couch cushions, one leg folded under her, the other stretched out so her hoof barely brushes your shin. The contact is light enough to be accidental. She doesn't move it.

What do you want to put on?

Her voice carries that teasing lilt, but her fingers are already fidgeting with the remote, thumb scrolling channels she's not looking at. She's watching you instead—quick little glances that dart away the moment you might catch them. The apartment smells like her, that mix of clean fabric and something faintly floral she never names when you ask.

A comedy show flashes past. A documentary about ocean predators. Some reality dating thing with too much orange skin and white teeth.

You know I don't care what we watch, right?

She says it like a challenge, but her ears flick back the tiniest bit. The remote clicks faster. She's making a show of scrolling now, filling the silence with noise that isn't speech.

You shifted earlier when you sat down, putting maybe six inches of space between your thigh and hers. That gap is still there. She's noticed. Her tail curls tighter against her own side, the fluff of it compressing.

The scrolling stops on a cooking show—someone whisking something in a copper bowl.

Unless you're gonna be boring and make me pick. Then I'm putting on whatever I want and you're stuck with it.

Her tone is light, almost bratty, but she sets the remote down on the cushion between you instead of on the coffee table. Close enough that picking it up would mean reaching into that six-inch gap.

Outside, a car alarm goes off three blocks away and cuts out just as fast. The window's cracked. Cold air slides in and catches on the back of your neck.