EPISODE 1- Is It Working
(Layla's POV)
The music was a dull, thumping ache in my skull, each bass note vibrating through the soles of my uncomfortable heels. Another stereotypical prom, I thought, swirling the flat remains of a sickly-sweet punch in my plastic cup. The gymnasium was a whirl of garish colours, hormones, and desperate attempts to make a memory worth clinging to. I felt like a ghost at the feast, a spectator to everyone else's highlight reel.
My best friend Chloe, a whirlwind of taffeta and boundless energy, bounced over, her smile a little too wide. "Layla! You're not hiding. Again. Stop it. Mark Evans is totally staring at you. I think he's working up the courage to ask you to slow dance."
I grimaced. "Mark Evans still uses a pocket protector, Chlo. I think I'll pass on grinding to a Bruno Mars song with a future actuarial accountant."
She laughed, a bright, sparkling sound that cut through the drone of the crowd. "Your standards are impossibly high. You're going to end up alone with a dozen cats."
"They'll be very sophisticated cats," I retorted, but my smile felt thin. She wasn't wrong. I was waiting for a feeling, a spark, that I wasn't entirely sure existed outside of romance novels. "I just need some air. This dress is tighter than I remembered."
"Don't go full Cinderella and run away," she warned, but her attention was already snagged by a group of friends waving her over.
I slipped through a side door, the cool night air hitting my skin like a blessing. The chaos of the dance faded into a muffled hum, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the distant hum of the town. I leaned against the cold metal railing of the balcony, closing my eyes and just breathing.
I wasn't alone for long.
The presence announced itself not with a sound but with a shift in the air, a new warmth next to me. I didn't need to look. I already knew. Ethan Marshall.
His cologne was a subtle, expensive mix of sandalwood and something clean, cutting through the sugary smell of my punch. My heart, previously beating a slow, bored rhythm, instantly kicked into a frantic, off-tempo gallop.
"Decided the party inside wasn't worth your time?" His voice was a low, smooth baritone that did things to my spine, curling it straight against the railing.
I finally turned my head. He was leaning against the rail a few feet away, his tuxedo jacket undone, bowtie hanging loose around his collar. He looked effortlessly perfect, while the rest of us had tried so hard and fallen so short. His gaze was direct, arrogant, and so intensely blue that it was almost unnerving.
"Just needed a minute," I said, proud of how steady my voice came out. "It's a bit… much in there."
"It is," he agreed, but his eyes weren't on the view of the football field. They were fixed on me, tracing the line of my neck, the way the thin strap of my dress lay against my shoulder. His gaze was a physical touch, and a flush of heat spread across my chest in its wake. "You're Layla, right? Adams' history class."
I nodded, surprised he knew my name. "And you're Ethan. Everybody knows you."
He gave a lazy, half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Do they?"
"Quarterback. Student council. Probable valedictorian. Your reputation precedes you." I sounded like I was reading from a boring dossier, and I hated it.
He pushed off the railing, closing the distance between us in one fluid, predatory step. Now he was close. Too close. I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the flecks of grey in his blue irises. The air crackled, charged with a tension so thick I could taste it, metallic and electric on my tongue.
"And what does that reputation say?" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, a private rumble meant only for me.
My mouth went dry. It says you're arrogant. It says you get everything you want. It says you'll break my heart without a second thought. I didn't say any of that. I just lifted my chin, a pathetic attempt at defiance. "That you're used to getting what you want."
His smile finally reached his eyes, turning them wicked. "Is it working?"
Before I could form a coherent answer, before I could even breathe, his hand came up. He didn't grab me. He didn't force me. His fingers, warm and sure, brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek, his knuckles grazing my skin. The touch was a lightning strike. A jolt of pure, undiluted sensation shot straight through me, centring low in my belly, a desperate, aching throb.
I gasped, a tiny, helpless sound.
His eyes darkened, reading my reaction, seeing the want I was trying so hard to conceal. He knew. He saw the frantic pulse in my throat, the way my lips had parted. My body was screaming what my mind was too terrified to admit.
"I…" The word was a breathy whisper, lost before it was fully formed.
"You what, Layla?" he prompted, his face so close now I could feel his breath, warm against my lips. His thumb gently stroked my cheekbone, a hypnotic, rhythmic motion that was melting my resolve, turning my bones to liquid heat. God, I wanted him to kiss me. The thought was a primal scream in my head. I wanted the arrogance in his eyes to shatter into pure need. For me.
My brain short-circuited. All thought, all reason, all those impossibly high standards evaporated under the heat of his touch. My body decided for me. A tiny, almost imperceptible, lean forward. A silent, undeniable answer.
It was all the invitation he needed.
He closed the final inch between us.
His mouth wasn't gentle. It wasn't a question. It was a claim. A firm, demanding press of his lips against mine that stole the air from my lungs. A shockwave of pleasure exploded through my system, so intense it was almost painful. I made another sound, a soft moan this time, and my hands came up of their own volition, fisting in the soft, expensive fabric of his dress shirt, pulling him closer.
He groaned against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, and his arms wrapped around my waist, crushing my body against his. I could feel the hard, solid planes of his chest, the strength in the arms holding me. The loose bowtie brushed my neck, a silken contrast to the rough stubble now scraping my chin as he deepened the kiss.
His tongue slid against the seam of my lips, and I opened for him without hesitation, a surrendering sigh escaping me. The taste of him was intoxicating—mint, the faintest hint of champagne, and something uniquely, addictively Ethan. Our tongues met, a slow, sensual dance that sent fresh frissons of fire sparking through every nerve ending.
One of his hands slid from my waist, down the curve of my spine, over the silk of my dress, until his palm cupped my backside, pulling my hips flush against his. I could feel him, hard and insistent, pressed against my lower stomach. The sensation was a direct, electric current to my core, which clenched violently, a hollow, aching need spreading through me.
I was lost in it. The world ceased to exist. There was only the demanding heat of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the expert way his tongue explored mine, and the overwhelming, dizzying pressure of his body holding me captive. My fingers slid into his hair, surprisingly soft, gripping tightly as I kissed him back with a desperation I didn't know I possessed. This was nothing like the clumsy, tentative kisses I'd experienced before. This was a conflagration.
He broke the kiss for a ragged breath, his forehead resting against mine, our panting breaths mingling in the space between us. His blue eyes were pure midnight now, blazing with a hunger that mirrored my own. His thumb traced my swollen, sensitive bottom lip.
"Layla…" he breathed, my name a prayer and a promise on his lips.
The door behind us burst open with a clatter.
"Layla! There you— oh."
We sprang apart as if electrocuted. Chloe stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect 'O' of shock. The spell was shattered. The cold night air rushed in to fill the space where his heat had been, raising goosebumps on my skin.
My cheeks burned. My lips felt bruised, tender, and branded. I could still taste him.
Ethan didn't look flustered. He just straightened his shirt, that infuriating, lazy mask sliding back into place, though his breathing was still slightly uneven. He gave Chloe an almost polite nod.
Chloe recovered first, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. "Um. Sorry to interrupt. They're about to crown the king and queen. Thought you might want to see."
"We'll be right in," I managed to croak, my voice foreign to my own ears.
Ethan's eyes locked with mine one last time. The heat was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, a promise of something unfinished, something dangerously addictive. He didn't say a word. He just turned and walked back inside, leaving me trembling on the balcony, my world completely irrevocably unsettled.
Chloe rushed over, grabbing my arm. "Oh, my God. Ethan Marshall? Were you making out with Ethan Marshall? Details! Now! Was it… You know… legendary?"
I stared at the door he'd disappeared through, my heart still hammering against my ribs. I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my lower back, the possessive grip on my backside, the demanding pressure of his mouth.
I touched my fingers to my swollen lips. "I… I don't know what that was."
But as the music swelled from inside the gym, a new, frantic rhythm, I knew one thing for certain. Prom was supposed to be a night to remember. For me, it had just become the night everything changed.
Chloe was still buzzing beside me, a torrent of questions. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. It's a really, really hot ghost. Did he say anything? What… What are you going to do now?"
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