LAYLA’S POV
Whoever invented baths deserves financial compensation and probably a pack holiday.
I still hurt everywhere. My feet throb, my ribs ache, and one side of my face is still sore. But after standing under hot water for almost an hour, I at least feel like a functioning member of society again.
Which is progress.
I’m dressed in pajama shorts and an oversized cardigan that practically swallows me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingers, as I follow the loud sound of voices toward the living room.
The second I step into view, the conversation cuts off like someone hit mute. Six pairs of eyes swivel toward me at once.
“Layla,” Eliot says first, straightening in his seat.
I lift one hand awkwardly. “I didn’t know you guys were still here.”
Wendy is sitting cross-legged on
