Driven To You

"I'm coming, Aaron," I gasp breathlessly, arching my back as the tension spirals higher.

"Me too, Layla," he replies, his movements intensifying, his focus locked on me. The room is filled with heat, passion, and the unspoken agreement that this is all it is supposed to be: physical. No strings, no promises.

As we collapse beside each other, catching our breath, a silence lingers—comfortable but undeniably empty. Aaron is the first to break it, his hand running through his tousled hair. "So, same time next week?"

I smirk, rolling onto my side to face him. "If I'm not busy."

He chuckles, the sound low and easy. "Sure. No pressure."

And that's how it always is between us—a cycle of heat and distance, a connection that never dares to go deeper. At least, that's what I tell myself.

He gets off the bed, cleans himself up, and grabs his jacket. As he heads toward the door, he throws a casual glance back at me. "See you, Lay. Don't fall in love with me or miss me too much."

"As if I will," I scoff, my voice dripping with mockery. He chuckles again, the sound fading as the door closes behind him. I lie there for a moment, too drained to move, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet hum of the night.

Hi. I'm Layla, the rebel outcast of Kingston High. And he's Aaron, the charming soccer captain every girl swoons over. How did we get into this? I have no idea. I was just tired of hitting the club every weekend for meaningless flings. So, when the opportunity presented itself to have a meaningless fling from the comfort of my home, I took it. And as far as I know, Mr. Dream Guy went through a really nasty breakup. We both have our reasons for this.

Eventually, I drag myself off the bed, lock the door, and clean up. I toss the sheets into the washer before making myself a cup of instant noodles. Settling onto the couch, I flip through the channels until I land on a sappy romcom. I love to hate-watch these. Once upon a time, I believed in them—true love, grand gestures, all of it. Now, they just make me sick to my stomach. True love is a hoax.

I finish eating, turn off the TV, and crawl back into bed. It feels unusually empty and cold. Grabbing my current fantasy novel, I let myself escape into another world, the words pulling me away from the void of my own. Eventually, the book slips from my fingers, and I drift off to sleep.