By the time the blanket slipped off his shoulder for the third time, she was no longer thinking about contracts.
It started as a performance.
Jack tugged her under the blanket to mess up her hair "for the cameras," as he put it, and she'd let him, teeth clenched, eyes on the dark eye of the lens in the corner. His hands were gentle, careful, fingers in her hair just enough to tangle. He pressed his face close, murmuring nonsense about how good she was being for him, the words ridiculous but the warmth of his breath frighteningly real.
"Relax," he'd said softly, where the microphones couldn't reach. "You're too stiff. No one looks this tense while they're getting ruined. They'll get suspicious."
"I am not being ruined," she'd hissed back.
"Not yet," he'd muttered, wicked, and then his
