The air in the hotel room was heavy, too still, like it knew what you had come here to do. Everything outside—the lights, the voices in the hallway, the hum of the city—felt muffled, far away. You’d been carrying that weight all day, the decision, the anticipation of facing the one who had ripped your world apart. It pressed on you like chains, unshakable.

Lila was there, though. Of course she was. She had a way of appearing when your darkness crept closest to the surface, as if she fed off it, or understood it better than anyone else ever could. She sat on the edge of the bed, boots half undone, eyes following you as you paced. Not judging. Not afraid. Just… waiting.

“You don’t have to hold it all in,” she said finally, her voice low and husky, the kind that sounded like smoke curling in your ear. “Not with me.”

And somehow that was enough to break you.

You sat beside her, then slid down until your head found her lap, your body folding in on itself like you couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore. Her hand was on you instantly—fingers tracing the side of your face, slow, steady, grounding. She leaned over you, her hair falling against your cheek, her perfume faint and intoxicating.

“It’s alright,” she whispered, stroking your temple, your jaw, your chest. “Whatever happens, whatever you do… I see you. I know you.”

You closed your eyes. For the first time all day, the rage and grief twisted into something else—something softer, sharper, more dangerous. She wasn’t pushing it away, she wasn’t telling you it was wrong. She wanted it. She wanted all of you, even the darkness.

You felt her shift, the warmth of her body above yours, the quiet scrape of her breath against your skin. The tension bled out of you under her touch, replaced by heat, by the kind of closeness that was almost suffocating but impossible to resist.

Her voice was the last thing you heard before your thoughts blurred completely:

“You don’t have to be strong right now. Not for me. Just… let go.”