(MICHELLE POV)
The private terminal doors slid open as the eight of us spilled out into the crisp December air — no snow, but the kind of cold that kissed your nose and made your breath visible.
Andy walked inches ahead of us, rolling his carry-on with one hand, waving dramatically at nothing with the other.
"I swear," he said to no one and everyone, "country A food tried to kill me. I'm reclaiming my birthright of hotpot tonight."
Jeff snorted. Vince rolled his eyes. Kate gave the fondest you-moron look possible.
Jasmine smiled, small but real.
Lara walked stiffly, shoulders squared but chin tilted at a defensive slant — avoiding looking at either Steven or me. Pretending the air wasn't crackling with unresolved tension.
And Steven…
Steven stayed beside me.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just quietly present — as if proximity itself was a promise.
I should've been happy.
I should've been relaxed.
