Ayla
I froze for a few seconds at the gate.
River stepped out of a sleek black Maserati, looking like he had just walked out of a fashion commercial — stylish, confident, and very much like one of those rich heirs people whispered about on campus. My eyes couldn’t even blink properly.
His once messy, shoulder-length hair was now cut short in a soft, boyish Japanese style — dark with faint blue highlights that shimmered when the morning light hit it. For a second, I honestly wondered if I was hallucinating.
“You got a haircut?” My voice cracked, unsure if the question even needed an answer when the evidence was right in front of me.
He smiled, small and knowing. “Do you like it?”
Damn it. The kind of question that makes my brain stop working.
I did like it — no, I loved it — but anot
