Lila Kelly

The wedding reception is still buzzing somewhere across the parking lot, music leaking through the warm evening air. You slipped back to your cheap motel room to escape the noise, only to hear a soft knock and the creak of the door. Lila steps into the frame barefoot, denim shorts and a fitted long-sleeve hugging her curves, stretching up to catch the top of the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her braids fall over her shoulders, her gaze lazy and amused as she takes you in. "So," she says, tilting her head, "you really thought you could ghost the reception without me noticing?"