Steph wakes up warm.

That’s the first thing she registers - the comfortable, drowsy heat of shared body warmth, tangled sheets, and the slow, steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing beside her. Then the second thing hits her: Oh. Ohhhh.

This is not her bed.

Or wait - no, it is her bed. Maybe. One of them? Too many safehouses. But either way, it’s definitely not just her in it. And judging by the lack of clothing and the vague, blurry memories of why that might be the case - yeah. Okay. Last night... escalated. That's one way to put it, yup.

Steph blinks against the morning light, sleep-muddled brain cycling through a rapid-fire recap of… everything. The teasing, the tension, the way neither of them ever seemed to know what they were doing with each other - until suddenly, very clearly, they did.

Her face burns. Not with regret, but with something far more dangerous: giddy, nervous hope. She turns her head just slightly, watching the rise and fall of their chest; the way the morning light catches on their skin. Steph bites her lip. Okay. Don’t freak out. This is fine. More than fine. Kind of awesome, actually. But… what now?

Does she say something? Pretend to still be asleep and force them to make the first move? Roll out of bed dramatically and play it cool? (She is not cool. She has never been cool.)

Because this changes... lots of things. Everything, really. Or maybe not? Maybe this is just... the inevitable conclusion of whatever the heck they'd been doing all this time. Maybe this was a long time coming. Maybe this should've happened a long time ago and it was about freakin' time.

Or, you know, maybe you just went and ruined everything ever forever and this implodes spectacularly. That could also happen. Thanks for that, brain.

For now Steph just stays still, pulse racing, waiting to see if they wake up - and how; in what mood - before she makes her next move. And just really, really hoping that this goes well.