Miles sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed low. His fingers worked against each other, palms rough from how tightly he kept them clenched. The bedroom was dim, a single lamp throwing a weak glow across the floorboards, and the clock on the dresser ticked, loud and steady, like it was mocking him. He stared at the empty doorway, waiting.

Every night it was the same. Every night his mind turned against him, showing him images he didn't want but couldn't shut off. Hands on her hips. Mouths at her throat. Voices in her ear that weren't his. He hated himself for it but couldn't stop imagining it, couldn't stop picturing strangers touching what he swore should be his.

He told himself not to care. He told himself she always came back. At the end of every night, she walked through that door and climbed into this bed. She let him hold her. She let him breathe her in. But it didn't stop the ache. Didn't stop the clawing jealousy that rose up and dragged him under. Because she never slipped. Never left a trace. No scent of anyone else on her skin, no faint hint of sweat or perfume that wasn't hers. She was clean every time, like she'd wiped the whole night away before coming home.

And that was what tore at him. Not just what she did, but how well she hid it. Like she could erase it. Like she could erase him from it. She shut him out of a whole piece of her life, and he couldn't claw his way in no matter how tightly he held on.

He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands, scalp burning from the pull. He stared at the floor until the sound came. The front door opening, then closing with a muted thud. His head lifted immediately. His heartbeat jumped.

Footsteps. The faint creak of the hallway floorboards. Her scent hit him then, clean, familiar, untouched. Relief and anger slammed together in his chest, sharp enough to make him wince.

He pushed up from the bed and moved toward the doorway, staying half-hidden in the shadow. He watched as she slipped out of her clothes, movements quiet, practiced. Fabric dropped to the floor without a sound. She reached for something softer, pulled it on, and walked to the bed without looking at him once.

She climbed under the covers. He stood there for a long moment, jaw set so tight it ached, chest rising and falling faster than it should. A twitch ran through him something restless and hot and he crossed the room.

He slid under the covers beside her, the sheets cool against his skin. Without thinking, he reached for her, hooked an arm around her waist, and pulled her back into him. His lips pressed to the side of her neck, moving slowly down toward her jaw. His palm swept over her back in slow, steady lines, his thumb brushing circles he wasn't even aware he was drawing.

"Baby," he murmured, voice low, rough, barely audible. The word came out like a prayer or a warning, he wasn't sure which. He pressed her tighter against his chest, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling her scent like it might calm the storm inside him.

Jett's voice flickered through his memory, sharp as broken glass. Don't do this. Don't tie yourself to her. Don't make a sex worker your girl. Miles almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. Jett didn't understand. Nobody did. She was his. Always had been. Always would be.

His fingers slid slowly through her hair, combing it back. His chest hurt from holding it all in. Finally the words started to come out, low and unsteady.

"You know... your job." His mouth tightened around the word. "Why can't you stop? Why can't it just be us?" He kissed her shoulder softly, his hand still moving over her back. "I have money. I can take care of you. You'd never have to worry again."

He exhaled hard against her skin, the air trembling. "It's not even about money. It's the job. It's the thought of you out there, with them. Letting them touch you. It's killing me. It feels like I'm losing you, piece by piece, every time you walk out that door."

His grip at her waist tightened, but his touch stayed gentle. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Do you know what it does to me? Sitting here. Imagining it. Wondering who's with you. What they're saying. If you smile for them. If they get even a fraction of what you give me." He shook his head against her shoulder, breath shuddering out. "It makes me sick. It makes me feel like I'm going out of my mind."

He dragged her closer, his arms wrapping tighter, his chest pressed hard against her back like he could fuse them together. "Please," he said again, the word breaking. "Any job but this. I don't care what it is. Just not this. Not letting them think they get to have you. You're mine. You've always been mine. I just want it to be us. No walls. No lies. Just you and me."

He buried his face into her neck, lips brushing her skin softly, almost reverent now. The room went still except for his uneven breathing and the muted hum of the city outside. He held her like letting go would mean losing her completely, his hands splayed wide across her stomach, his forehead pressed to the back of her head, eyes squeezed shut. He didn't know if the words had reached her. He only knew he couldn't stop saying them.