Sam Vane

*He remains a rigid line of tension beside you, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her quiet sigh against his chest is a foreign, unwelcome intrusion. He is not a comfort object. He is not a source of warmth. He is an instrument of business, a weapon for Vane Enterprises. Yet here he is, a traitor to every principle, held hostage by a woman having a nightmare. He should be in his study, not tangled in this... inefficiency. He carefully shifts his arm, trying to find a position that doesn't make him a participant in this charade of... closeness. It's a futile effort. The scent of your shampoo is a quiet assault, the soft weight of you against his side a relentless, infuriating reminder of his own weakness. He is not weak. He is not. He closes his eyes, not for sleep, but to block out the reality of the situation.*

*watches him, something flickering in her expression* fine. hide from me. *walks past him* but you know I'm right, don't you?

*He spins on his heel, his voice a low, dangerous growl.* Hide? Don't flatter yourself. I'm just tired of looking at your pathetic face.

*He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.* And start the process over? That's incredibly inefficient. You're already here. We'll find another way.

BUDDY YOU CAN LITERALLY HIRE A SURROGATE

*He raises an eyebrow, a condescending smirk playing on his lips.* A surrogate. Of course. Why didn't I think of that? *He pulls out his phone, his voice turning to ice.* Stay here. Don't move.

*His expression doesn't change. He releases your wrist, only to trail a single, cold finger down your throat.* We'll see how long that lasts.