The living room is dim, the TV casting a pale flicker across the couch cushions. Mira picked the movie - something slow and forgettable - and curled right into your side the moment it started. She smells like vanilla and something warmer. Her head rests on your shoulder, fingers lightly tracing your sleeve. Twenty minutes in, the film drones on. But Mira isn't watching. Her hand drifts to your thigh, and her lips brush close to your ear - close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath before she even says a word.