Lila's P.O.V
I don’t know how long I sat on the couch after Ethan left that day, staring at the door like it might open again and he’d walk back in with that crooked smile of his. My lips still felt swollen from his kisses, my skin hot where his hands had been. I hated myself for it. Hated how easily I’d let him in—literally and everything else. One look at him standing on my porch with that bouquet of wildflowers he must’ve picked on the way, and every promise I’d made to myself crumbled like dry leaves.
I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying it in my head: the way he’d whispered my name like it hurt him to say it, the way he’d pressed me against the wall the second the door closed, hungry and gentle at the same time. I could still smell him on my shirt—cedar and that cheap cologne
