March 2031, Los Angeles.

I found myself in a hotel room in Los Angeles, a temporary haven where I could afford to forget my daily life, if only for a few hours.

She was stunning, with her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her sparkling blue eyes fixed on me with an intense gaze. Her slender and graceful body was wrapped in a black dress that accentuated her perfect curves. She had an innocent air about her, yet she was a true slut... Or not really.

I pulled her close, my lips seeking hers in a passionate kiss. Our tongues intertwined, exploring every corner of our mouths with insatiable eagerness. Her hands slipped under my shirt, caressing my bare skin with a delicacy that sent shivers down my spine.

"You're beautiful," I murmured, my gray eyes locked on hers.

'8/10,' I thought to myself.

She smiled, a mischievous grin that told me she shared my desire. "And I want you," she said in a sensual voice.

Our kisses intensified, our tongues dancing together. I felt her body press against mine, her breasts pressing against my chest, her hips grinding against my groin. I lifted her dress, revealing her long, slender legs, and I gave in to caressing her, touching her, desiring her.

She moaned, her eyes closed, savoring my touches.

"Keep going, don't stop."

I laid her down on the bed, her blonde hair spreading across the pillow like a golden cascade. I leaned over her, my lips trailing down her neck, leaving a trail of kisses on her soft skin. My hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, every hollow, every spot that made her moan with pleasure.

I undressed, letting my clothes fall to the floor. She smiled, a satisfied grin, and pulled me towards her. My hands caressed her thighs, her hips, her ass, making her moan with delight.

Her legs opened to welcome me. I penetrated her warm and wet body, feeling her heat envelop me, squeeze me, desire me. Our bodies collided, our kisses intensified, our moans mingled in a symphony of pleasure.

I took her with passion, my movements accelerating, my hands caressing her body, her breasts, her ass. She moaned, her eyes opening again, her hands gripping my hair, pulling me closer. Our kisses became fiercer.

Yet the creaking of the bed was about the only thing I paid attention to. The rest was just... background noise. The rhythm. The sweat. The moans, which, for once, were quite convincing. Chloé was a performer, I had to give her that.

'I wonder how many body counts she has? 20, 30...'

Her usually piercing and confident blue eyes, hidden behind her glasses, were half-closed, blurred with pleasure. Her skin, always tanned, shone under the soft light of the bedside lamp.

Our bodies were now intertwined, moist and exhausted. Her warm breath tickled my neck. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and a hint of despair.

...

The hotel room was bathed in dim light, filtered through the half-drawn curtains, revealing the neon lights of the city. The air was heavy with a familiar humidity, a blend of sweat and expensive perfumes.

She lay on the bed, naked, her blonde hair in disarray on the crumpled pillow. Her skin gleamed under the gentle glow of the bedside lamp. A beautiful woman, with curves in all the right places, a body maintained through hours of exercise and a strict diet. Her eyes, still veiled by pleasure.

I slowly rose from the bed, my slender body contrasting with her athletic figure. A hand absentmindedly ran through my wet black hair, and I picked up a towel, wrapping it around my hips.

"You always do this, Lewis," she murmured.

I raised an eyebrow without turning around, busy cracking the knuckles of my wrists.

"Do what?"

"Leaving. As if it didn't matter."

I let out a light laugh, more like an amused breath than anything else. I turned my head towards her. She was now sitting, her legs crossed beneath her, an indecipherable expression on her face.

"Does it matter to you?"

She bit her lip, hesitant. We had done our internship together, she and I. Years of sharing the same hospital corridors, the same sleepless nights, the same cold corpses under the surgical light. We knew each other too well. For too long.

"I don't know... Do you love me?"

I stared at her. Her expression was all too familiar. How many times had we slept together? A dozen times? And now she wanted me to make the first move. The female whim. Unfortunately for her.

I picked up my phone from the bedside table, the screen briefly illuminating, displaying a few missed call notifications that I glanced at without really reading.

I gently caressed a rebellious lock of hair, pushing it behind her ear.

"Have I ever lied to you?" She smiled, one of those smiles between melancholy and amusement.

"No..."

Her arm reached out to me, her fingers sliding onto my wrist, an attempt at embracing. I let her hand rest on my skin for a few seconds before gently pushing it away. It wasn't a breakup, not a violent rejection, just a natural, mechanical movement. She didn't seem offended. She knew how I was. Always distant, always empty and lifeless.

Chloé said nothing. She knew I was weird, incapable of loving the way she deserved.

And yet, she stayed. She always came back. That was the craziest part. Women loved strange guys. Guys who made them suffer. Guys who couldn't commit. Guys like me.

I sighed and stretched before giving her one last look.

"Even if there's no love, you're still important to me. Sleep well." I kissed her on the forehead.

My voice was flat, devoid of warmth, just an empty phrase released into the air. Then, without waiting for a response, I picked up my phone from the bedside table and headed towards the bathroom. I needed a shower.

I closed the door behind me and turned on the shower. The hot water cascaded over my skin, washing away the sweat and remnants of the night. I closed my eyes and let the sound of the water lull me.

Steam slowly rose from the hot water, fogging the bathroom mirror. I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a cigarette between my fingers, watching the ash accumulate at the edge of the sink.

"I'm already 25. I wonder what Mom thinks of me up there..." I exhaled a puff, having just bathed and it was rather cold when my phone started vibrating.

I looked at it ringing, then the call ended.

"Why is she calling me at 8 p.m.?"

I absentmindedly picked up the phone.

[Lisa: 37 missed calls]

I slammed the call with my tongue, and as I closed the screen, she called again. And finally, I picked up.

I answered without saying a word.

[Damn it, Lewis!]

Lisa's voice cracked in my ear like a slap. Was she angry? No, rather nervous.

"Are you going to stop calling me, yes?!"

I let a few seconds pass, took a long drag of nicotine, slowly exhaling the smoke towards the ceiling.

"What's wrong?"

Silence. Just her rapid and unstable breathing on the other end of the line. Then she finally let go:

[I-I'm pregnant...]

I tapped my cigarette in the ashtray on the edge of the sink.

"Congratulations."

Silence.

[Damn it, Lewis!] she choked. [Are you making fun of me?!]

I raised an eyebrow, resting my elbow on my knee.

[I don't see how it concerns me.]

The silence stretched, but this time, it wasn't an empty silence. It was heavy, oppressive, laden with expectation. On the line, I could hear her trembling breath, as if she was waiting for an answer, a word, a damn sign that it mattered to me. Maybe she was looking for comfort, or perhaps she hoped that, for once, I would take charge.

I took another drag, the bitter taste of tobacco filling my mouth.

[Why aren't you saying anything?]

Lisa's voice was broken. A mix of rage and despair.

"It's your choice."

[Damn it, but you—!]

She screamed through the phone, her anger finally exploding.

[You're the father, damn it!]

"It's probably likely."

[...]

"And if that's the case, you should abort."

I heard her take a sharp breath, and then... nothing. Not a word. Just background noise, short breath, the rustling of fabric, and then... a sob. Light. Discreet. But there.

I said nothing. I had nothing to say either.

Then a noise, another presence behind her. A deep, slightly worried male voice.

[What's going on, Lisa?]

[Nothing! ]

Her voice was rushed, too hasty to be credible.

"Stop crying, Lisa."

[*choked sob*...]

"You see that you're worrying your husband."

[...]

I dropped my cigarette into the sink, watching the ember extinguish under a stream of water.

"I'll send you the number of an obstetrician. He's quite good."

[...]

"Stay in shape. And good night."

I let a moment pass, then added.

"Say hi to your husband for me."

I didn't wait for her to respond. I hung up in the middle of her labored breath. Then I turned off my phone.

The silence returned. I slumped against the wall, my gaze lost in the dark night of Los Angeles below. The moon shone above the skyscrapers, indifferent to all this mess.

You're probably thinking I'm a bastard. A son of a bitch. An irresponsible.

First of all, don't insult my mother.

Secondly, I'm just a Hardy Boy.