(Michelle POV — Arrival)
The night market looked like something pulled straight out of a romance film that insisted on overcharging for fried squid.
Golden string lights zigzagged overhead, casting soft halos over cobblestone paths, while small stalls lined the boulevard with steam curling lazily into the winter air. The distant murmur of laughter mixed with faint music — warm, slow, comforting.
And in the middle of all that…
Steven Sy.
Hands in the pockets of his coat.
Posture straight as always.
Expression calm, focused.
Waiting.
For me.
My heart performed a suspicious little somersault.
"Sorry," I said as I stepped closer. "Was I late?"
"No," he replied immediately. "I arrived early."
Of course he did.
He always did.
We stood there for a brief moment — not awkward, just suspended — like two people unsure whether to begin walking or continue admiring the glow of newly discovered mutual awareness.
I smiled softly.
He noticed.
--
