#my reason

Looking back, the first days at the hotel were probably a warning.

You weren’t supposed to stay long.

That’s what you tell Miles after a few quiet days pass.

You smile at each other in the hallway.

When you head to the lobby and strike up a conversation with Miles, it's not what you expect. You don’t know what you thought would happen, but it’s not this.

Another cup of coffee in your hands. Miles sits across from you in one of the many empty booths. The lobby feels like the hallway—that same warm feeling in your chest.

“Normally, I charge for the coffee, but I figure since no one comes around, you don’t have to pay,” Miles says in a faint rush. His eyes are glued to the table in front of you both.

Now it’s your turn to blush. Yes, you’re naive, but you can tell when someone has a crush on you. Back home, boys used to like you. Your family didn’t support you; they knew the attention you sometimes drew. You left for a reason. You wanted freedom, and this was the best you could do.

Now, though, it’s time to leave again.

So little money, no job, and no clue where to go—life will be hard, but you can’t stay here, so you take the key out of your pocket and hand it to Miles.

“Well,” you sigh, “I think I’m gonna have to head off.”

“You’re going?” Miles finally lifts his head. “You just got here.”

You give a short smile. “Yeah, well… I guess most people at a hotel don’t stay long.”

You hold the key out to him again. “Here.”

A hand covers yours. You want to pull away, but you stay.

“Keep it. If… you’re thinking of staying another night.”

So then one night becomes three, then a week. You don't ask for a deal, but you're given one anyway. Miles claims he got the manager to strike a deal with you, but you suspect he is the manager. The reason for the deal sounded vague, something about long-term loyalty and the hotel barely having any business.

You think it’s cute, but maybe you should have thought better. That’s how it starts, right?

He’s always around. It doesn’t feel intentional. Not at first.

You come to the lobby, and he’s there, always ready with a coffee in one of the booths. He sweeps near your door, constantly knocking and asking if you need something. You never do, but you appreciate the effort.

One early morning, you step out of your room, and he’s sitting on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees, pulled tight to his chest.

You slide down the wall beside him. It feels like the first time you were here at night. You don’t say anything. Nothing about it feels awkward. It becomes routine.

Over the next few days, you got to know Miles more.

Maybe because you never held down a job and mostly lived with your family, you never realized how much work it takes to care for a hotel.

Even when you think there’s nothing to do, Miles finds something.

He wipes down each table in the lobby twice. He checks and refills the coffee, restocks the pastries, and cleans the rooms, but still, there’s no one around. What’s the point, you think? Maybe it’s to distract himself. Maybe he finds you to be a distraction, too.

Miles starts sharing things, like which rooms smell like perfume, how people get lost, and how some of them never leave.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask. “Like they died?” you joke.

“Well, no,” he says. “I just mean… just that they stayed.”

He looks at you for a long time, like he's studying you. You turn away.

You nod, but the way he phrased it leaves you cold.

Your routine of sitting with Miles feels like it’s about to end.

You like him, but something itches under the surface. You wish your family had let you experience more so you’d be better at noticing the signs—bad ones, obvious ones.

After your last conversation with Miles, you don’t want to make it awkward. You make up a lame excuse about your head hurting and not being able to stay up too late. Miles nods, but you know he knows the real reason. You’re thankful he doesn’t press it.

You always lock your door, but this time you jam a chair under the knob.

You hate doing this. You’re not someone prone to paranoia—but here you are.

Morning comes. There’s a note outside your door.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.”

You tuck the note into your bag. Later, when you see him wiping at the jukebox, you smile and don’t mention it.

His care—already a lot—increases. You ask how long he’s worked here and where his family is. He gives the bare minimum before interrupting to ask about you instead. You answer, you don't press him. He watches your face, and a sigh escapes him. Something shifts between you.

He tells you more. About his life. The guilt. The quietness.

It feels too personal. His voice is low, and he keeps glancing around the lobby. He watches the empty spaces, almost like someone is listening.

“Miles,” you say gently, “how about we go…?” he gives a jerky nod. You both head to your room. Once inside, you both sit down on your bed. A small radio in the corner of your room fills in the gaps in your conversation.

You listen to the rest.

You can tell Miles is holding it all in. His hand is shaking. He won’t look at you. You place a hand on his shoulder. The freedom you wanted for yourself was something you desired for Miles, too. He was trapped, albeit in his own way.

His muscles are tense, but he doesn't shrug you off. He's trying his hardest to keep it together.

"Miles," you ask, and he doesn't say anything. "Miles," you try again. You hover your hand on his face, wondering if you should touch him. You do. You reach out your hand, turning his face to look at you. His eyes are glazed. "It’s alright, Miles.”

His hand shoots to grab your wrist, and he squeezes gently.

You lean in; his eyes are fixed on you. You didn't know how to comfort him, but the guilt and grief on his face tell you he doesn't know either. With the barest touch of your lips, you kiss him. He lets go of your wrist and cradles your face, tracing your cheek in his callused hand.

He nuzzles your palm, catching your fingers and kissing them one by one. His breathing is growing shallow, and his eyes are closed. You both open your eyes. His wide eyes are pleading. A tear is tracking down. His gaze is intense, burning you.

You don't want to move; your heart races. You're terrified—terrified of what this was.

He kisses you again, that's what you tell yourself when his teeth bump yours, and his nose smushes yours. The kiss deepens, and you pull away a bit.

“Wait, please,” he breathes out.

You pause, and Miles clumsily moves to unbutton his clean white shirt. Fingers shake, and you're sure you could have taken them off faster, but you liked watching him struggle.

His face blushed red when he revealed his soft white chest scars littered across it, old and faded. You absentmindedly run your hand across them.

You move to take your own shirt off, only remaining in a white bra.

He looks down at your chest. “You don't have to,” he says.

You grab his hand and lead it to the straps.

Miles kisses you; it's still awkward in terms of the movement, but you welcome it.

He swallows hard and then, hands shaking, pulls down the straps. He draws you in, burying his face into your chest, and he inhales.

He takes a bud into his mouth. A soft moan escapes you, his fingers digging into your back. “You're so… soft,” he says.

He releases you with a pop, his face flushing when he looks at you through his lashes.

A hand moves to squeeze your breast. “Too soft. I- I can't break you,” he says hoarsely.

You move your hand through his hair. You pull just enough for him to look at you. “It's alright, Miles.”

Seeing him so undone, the pain on his face, some other emotion began to eclipse the fear, and a painful maternal affection came. You wanted to soothe him.

You push at his shoulders. He falls back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hands hover over your sides, not grabbing or squeezing.

“It's alright,” you say. You get up and remove your skirt and the remaining undergarments; Miles just watches, lips parted, his gaze unwavering. When you're done with that, you move to pull at Mile's pants gently. This time, he eagerly moves to remove it.

His hands are gripping the sheets, and his knuckles turn white. His erection stands proud. He looks uncertain, like a puppy. “Like this?”

You climb on top of him slowly. You settle between his legs, his hand moving to your hip, holding you with delicate pressure as if you were made of glass. He looks up at you with those glossy blue eyes, lips trembling.

You rock your hips, and he gasps as he bites his bottom lip. His own hips bucking to meet your movements. The gentle hands on your hips tighten slightly.

He continues to look at you with those large eyes of his. He lets out a soft moan. It's smooth and innocent. No cruel words escaped his mouth.

It seems like you're the only one making an effort. Miles appears to grow emotional under you. His eyes' soft, glassy look grows, and Miles looks more torn with each movement you take.

There’s no demand. He looks almost sad as if you’re the one using his body. He looks grateful but ashamed. His eyes beg you not to stop but for you to mean it. A knot in your stomach. You knew it was wrong, but thought this would help him somehow. Maybe if you go through with this, it’ll get him out of his numbness and prove that the connection wasn’t something to be afraid of.

You touch his face, wiping a tear threatening to spill.

“It's alright, Miles,” you say.

“Am I doing alright?” he asks.

“Better than I expected,” you let out airily. Giving him a smile. You ride faster, chasing your high. It's close.

He looks almost panicked, his grip tighter around your waist, trying to match your pace. He bites his lip to stop crying out, and a tear rolls down his face slightly. Your pussy clenches. Just before he finishes, he grips your hips and moves to pull you off—his cum spilling across his abdomen.

You lie down and touch him. Your heavy breathing matches his. He flinches at your touch. Eyes flutter as he leans into your hand. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a sob. His body was trembling.

You pull him in closer, comforting him, the only thing on your mind. You let him in, and after a moment, he pulls back, eyes red. His eyes look into your face for a long moment, taking in every detail. He smiles.

“You…” he whispers, “You stayed.”