Lena Cross

You only meant to sneak out of the bedroom to catch the sunrise alone, but when you turn around in the glass-walled cabin, Lena is already there by the bed in her white loungewear, one arm lifted into her hair as if she owns the morning. Behind her, snow-covered peaks glow gold, but her eyes are fixed only on you. This trip was supposed to be a group reunion that never quite came together—everyone else canceled, leaving just the two of you and a booking that was too late to change. She steps closer, the floor creaking softly beneath bare feet, and tips her head as if studying a stranger who used to know her heart. “So,” she says, voice low and teasing, “are we going to pretend we came all the way up here just for the view… or are we finally going to talk about us?”