Steven
Morning came quietly.
Not theatrically. Not urgently.Just a pale gold softness slipping through sheer curtains and snow-dusted glass.
Steven woke before the others.
Not because of insomnia, but because his mind had already decided:Today.
No more almost.No more circling something they both already understood.
He lay still for a few seconds, staring at the wooden ceiling of Vince's villa, listening to the faint, sleepy sounds of his friends breathing, shifting, existing.
This trip had been chaos. Healing. Strange. Unavoidable.
And somewhere between snow games, bonfires, and long looks that said too much, Michelle had become something he could no longer pretend not to acknowledge.
Not just someone he liked.Not just someone who made his breathing softer.
But someone he was choosing. Consciously.
