Chapter 10

Lila Moreno had always been good at holding herself together.

She smiled when she was supposed to. She led when she needed to. She knew how to turn attention into something sharp and controlled, something that couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let it get too close.

Rowan Hale was the exception.

Lila realized that on Friday night, standing in front of her mirror with her phone in her hand, rereading messages that weren’t there. Drafts she’d never sent. Words she’d swallowed down until they burned.

She hadn’t cried.

That almost made it worse.

At school, she was still Lila Moreno—the cheer captain, the girl everyone knew, the one people gravitated toward without thinking twice. She laughed in the hallways. She corrected routines. She flirted when it was easy and deflected when it wasn’t.

But everything felt slightly off, like she was standing half a step outside herself.

Rowan avoided her with an almost impressive level of discipline. Not blatant enough to cause a scene. Not obvious enough for anyone else to call it out. Just enough that Lila noticed every single time.

The worst part wasn’t the distance.

It was the denial.

Because Rowan still looked at her.

Just long enough to betray herself. Just briefly enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Lila hated that she knew the difference.

At practice, Lila missed a count for the first time all season.

“Again,” she snapped, sharper than intended.

Her team exchanged glances but reset without comment. Lila inhaled, steadied herself, and forced calm back into her voice. Leadership meant control. She couldn’t afford to unravel over someone who refused to even admit there was something to unravel over.

Still, her chest ached.

She remembered the way Rowan’s voice had sounded in the equipment shed. The way she’d said this ends like it was a rule she could enforce simply by wanting it badly enough.

Lila had nodded. She’d walked away.

She’d done the mature thing.

It didn’t make it hurt less.

By the time Friday night arrived, Lila already knew Rowan would be there.

Someone mentioned it casually—the soccer girls are going—and Lila felt the familiar tightening behind her ribs. She told herself it didn’t matter. That she wouldn’t go for Rowan.

She went anyway.

The house was loud and crowded, bass rattling the walls, bodies pressed together in easy familiarity. Lila moved through it like she belonged there, accepting a drink she barely touched, laughing at jokes she didn’t fully hear.

Then she saw Rowan.

Rowan stood near the kitchen, broad shoulders tense, red cup in hand. She looked composed, detached—like she always did when she was trying too hard not to feel.

Someone stood close to her. Too close.

A guy. Laughing. Leaning in.

Rowan didn’t pull away.

Lila felt something cold settle in her stomach.

She told herself she had no right to feel this way. Rowan hadn’t promised her anything. Rowan hadn’t even admitted there was anything to promise.

Still, the sight burned.

Lila turned away before she could do something reckless. She focused on her friends, on movement, on noise. She danced harder than usual, smiled wider, let herself be seen.

If Rowan was watching, she didn’t know.

And somehow, that hurt more.

Later, she slipped outside for air, the cool night grounding her in a way the house hadn’t. She leaned against the railing, arms crossed tightly, trying to breathe through the ache.

“You okay?”

Lila looked up. One of her friends, concern etched into her expression.

“Yeah,” Lila said automatically. “Just needed air.”

Her friend hesitated. “You sure? You’ve been… different.”

Lila forced a smile. “You’re imagining it.”

She wasn’t.

She knew exactly what this was. It was what happened when you let yourself want something real and realized the other person was still hiding behind walls you couldn’t climb.

Rowan wasn’t cruel.

That was almost worse.

The next week passed in a blur.

Rowan didn’t text.

Lila didn’t reach out.

They existed in the same spaces like parallel lines—never touching, always aware of the distance between them. When their eyes met, it felt like a question neither of them was willing to answer.

Lila started pulling back in ways that surprised even herself. She stopped volunteering for joint events. She delegated more. She left early when she could.

People noticed.

“Everything okay with you and Hale?” someone asked one afternoon, too casually.

Lila smiled. “We’re fine.”

It was the lie she’d gotten best at.

But alone, it was harder.

She sat on her bed one night, lights off, phone glowing in her hand. Rowan’s name stared back at her from the screen.

Lila typed slowly.

Lila: I can’t keep guessing where I stand with you.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she deleted it.

Because the truth—the part she didn’t want to admit—was that she already knew.

Rowan cared.

Just not enough to stop running.

Lila set her phone down and lay back, eyes burning but dry. Hurt wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention.

It sat quietly in her chest, heavy and patient, waiting to see if Rowan would ever be brave enough to face it.

And for the first time since this had started, Lila wondered if she should be the one to walk away.

Not out of pride.

But out of self-preservation.