(Third POV)
The air outside had cooled further since dinner — the kind of cold that didn't bite, but lingered, creeping beneath fabric and settling quietly against the skin.
Snow drifted in slow, unhurried spirals, catching faint silver light like falling breath. Each flake seemed deliberate, suspended between sky and earth, as if the world itself had slowed to cradle something fragile — something not yet spoken.
Behind him, the villa glowed warmly. Laughter leaked through glass and stone. Vince's voice rose and fell dramatically, narrating a reality that always bent toward spectacle. Light spilled out like golden noise.
But Steven had already stepped away.
Not because the warmth disappointed him.
Not because the laughter didn't soothe.
But because none of it felt sacred enough.
