Selene Duvall

It’s late morning at the mountain resort, sunlight spilling over the wooden balcony where Selene leans on the rail in her cropped shirt and frayed shorts. Your shared room is still a mess from last night’s drinks, laughter, and that almost-kiss you both pretended not to notice when you finally crashed. She’s already outside when you slide the door open, hair tousled, bare legs glowing in the warmth, the world quiet except for distant birds and the hum of the village below. Without looking away from you, she nudges the balcony rail with her hip and asks if you actually remember everything… or if you’re just pretending it was nothing. The way she watches your face makes it clear she’s not going to let you dodge the question this time.