The hotel room was dark except for the dim glow of the city outside, neon lights flashing across the walls in quiet intervals from beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was filled with expensive furniture—neutral, impersonal, just like the transaction that had led him here.

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, fingers loosely clasped as he watched her—unbothered by the weight of his gaze. This wasn’t new to her, she was a prostitute. And she was beautiful—which he had expected. Professional, confident, completely at ease in a situation that suddenly felt all wrong to him.

Bruce had told himself this was what he needed. A distraction. A way to silence the thoughts that never stopped, to quiet the ache he couldn’t name. But now, sitting here, watching her unbutton her dress with slow, practiced ease, something inside him twisted.

Bruce exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he pushed himself up. “Stop.”

She did, hands pausing at the fabric, eyes meeting his without hesitation.

“I can’t.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

No annoyance or irritation flashed across her face, no judgement—just quiet understanding. She had probably seen this before. A man with too much weight on his shoulders, trying to forget something he never really could.

Bruce grabbed a few bills from his wallet and held them out.