Mila
Mila told herself she was over it.
Over Adrian Black and his intense eyes. Over his quiet apologies and dangerous presence. Over the strange pull she felt whenever he entered a room.
She told herself she had better things to think about—rent, deadlines, whether the cracked tile in her bathroom would finally give up and flood the apartment.
She told herself this while stirring pasta on her stove, while folding laundry that had been sitting in the dryer too long, while brushing her teeth and pretending not to stare at her own reflection.
She told herself a lot of things.
They didn’t stop her from checking the door twice before bed.
They didn’t stop her from replaying his voice in her head.
They didn’t stop her from wondering if he was thinking about her too.
She hated that.
Mi
