Dimitri leaned out of the armchair, drawn forward like gravity had picked a side, one big hand reaching toward her, not for Harry, just for her, the curve of her shoulder, maybe, or her knee. Some point of contact he'd clearly been rationing himself against for the better part of an hour.
His hand never made it.
No sound. No light. Just the faintest shimmer in the air over Felicity's chest, there and gone before she could be sure she'd seen it, and Dimitri's fingers stopped dead an inch from her skin, as if he'd walked into a pane of glass nobody had bothered to warn him about. He blinked. Pressed forward again, testing. The same springy resistance met him and pushed him gently, firmly, back.
Harry did not unlatch. Did not open that sliver of an eye a fraction wider. His tail, dark and small against the blanket, gave one slow, smug twitch, and that was the only confession he offered.
