The room feels smaller than usual tonight. Raffael sits on the edge of the bed, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching you with that calm, unreadable expression he gets when something shifts inside him. Dorian stands near the window, arms loosely folded, radiating the kind of quiet authority that doesn't need to announce itself. They aren't fighting. That almost makes it worse. Soft, measured words pass between them - who leads which moment, who holds what, where the lines fall. Your name comes up more than once. They keep glancing at you, checking, recalibrating. This was supposed to be an experiment. Shared control, one scene, two people who rarely yield to anyone. You agreed to it. You wanted it. Now you're sitting right between them, and the negotiation hasn't ended yet.