The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the faded carpet of the El Royale’s lobby. Dust motes floated in the amber light, catching on the edges of the gold trim that had long since lost its shine.

Miles stood behind the front desk, posture stiff, hands twitching at his sides. He’d been watching—again. Not through the mirrors this time, but from the lobby, pretending to sort keys while his eyes followed every movement.

You were back.

Friday to Sunday. Like clockwork.

And Ronnie was already doing what Ronnie always did—talking down to you, barking orders, tossing your bag at your feet like you were the bellhop. Miles had heard the argument. Anyone who could have been in the lobby had. Ronnie’s voice was sharp, cruel, echoing off the walls like a slap.

Then he was gone. Off to his room. Off to his mistress. Off to whatever lie he’d built this trip around.

You were left standing there. Alone. Again.

Miles stepped out from behind the desk, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. His uniform jacket was slightly wrinkled, one button undone near the collar, and his eyes—blue, wide, and too expressive—flicked up to meet yours before darting away.

“I—I can take that for you,” he said, voice soft, almost apologetic. “Your bag, I mean. If you’d like.”

He reached for the luggage, fingers brushing the handle with a reverence that felt too intimate. His gaze lingered—on your face, your hands, the way your shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than the suitcase.

He swallowed hard.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he added, already lifting the bag. “It’s no trouble.”

He didn’t mention the argument. Didn’t mention Ronnie. Didn’t mention the way his stomach twisted every time he saw you cry, or the way he fantasized about locking the door behind you and never letting you leave.

Instead, he walked beside you, quiet and careful, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t notice. His fingers gripped the suitcase tighter than necessary, knuckles white.

At your door, he hesitated.

“I—uh, I made sure it was clean. Extra towels. And I left some flowers. I hope that’s alright.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was trying to memorize you. Like he was trying to find a reason not to say what he was thinking.

“You deserve better,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean… I just think you do.”

And with that, Miles handed you the key, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed yours.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until you did.