He's there, but he's not.

Miles.

He paid off all the loans and credit cards, the cash finding its way to my account in the form of an "inheritance".

All complete bullshit.

I argued with him about it for days; it was mine to pay off, and mine alone, but he dug in, stubbornly, until I relented. I suspect it's washed money, but when I finally clear off the last credit card I can't bring myself to care, the relief so great I cry. Again.

It's like the last string tying Luke to me has been severed. The last hold he had. I'm cut loose, no longer drowning, free to float to the surface and breathe.

I thank Miles over and over, but it seems pathetic, how big his gesture is and how small and insignificant those two words can feel when you have nothing else to give.

He says it's just money, but it's not.

It's freedom, for me.

I talk to him a little every week on the phone after that. It's stilted and awkward as I ramble on nervously. He listens quietly and I can't read him at all. Sometimes it just feels like I'm talking to myself.

I haven't physically seen him since we sort of ended things and that was more than a month ago. We haven't really talked about that at all, but the ache I feel is ever-present; in my heart and my head and every little thing that reminds me of him.

I miss him.

And it hurts.

And a lot of the time it's all I think about.

We let our relationship go easily, as if nothing mattered - as if everything was nothing at all. But it did. It was.

I replay things said in the heat of the moment over and over; things that I wish I hadn't said, and then I think of all those things that I never got to say to him at all.

But, life goes on.

I still go to work, I still practice pole with Tara, I find an actual yoga class to go to since my money isn't all tied to debts and make friends with a girl named Cara. We go for coffee and to the cinema. She's nice and normal and that makes me feel nice and normal.

I meet up with Charlotte and Joey and their happiness stabs me in my chest; the longing for things I had for a little while making my heart pang. Things are moving fast for them; they're getting a place together. I tell them I'm happy for them even though it feels hollow. I don't tell Tara. I think she knows I still talk to Charlotte but we don't bring it up, it's easier not to. She's seeing Vince every chance she can get right now though, so it's not as if she isn't moving on.

Sometimes I see Vince and JJ at the club but Miles's never there with them… because of me, I'm not sure. I don't ask, even though I want to know; where is he? Why isn't he here? They acknowledge me in passing but they mostly steer clear. I wonder what they think is going on. Not that they'd care, really.

It's living.

I'm living.

But not in a way I know.

…

"How do you feel about that?"

I stare at Ida. At her icy blonde-grey hair and her thick-rimmed purple glasses. She's looking at me expectantly, berry lips pursed. My eyes drift around her office to the fish tank behind her and I watch the little fishes dart around, fins fluttering like material in a soft breeze.

How do I feel?

"Terrified. Weak."

She's talking about my reasoning for not pressing charges against Luke.

I've been seeing her for over a month now. I protested because shit like therapy isn't fucking cheap, but Miles wasn't having any of that either.

His words echo around my head, fiercely.

You need to talk to someone, Mia. If not me, then someone who's gonna help you deal with shit, cos fuck knows you need it.

I gave in but I refused to let him pay for it all like he wanted to. For my own dignity, I needed to pay what I could. So I do just that and he puts in the rest. Otherwise, he doesn't interfere.

I'm basically broken, and he wants me to be fixed, but I'm not sure whether I can be. Ida says trauma will leave a scar and just because I can't remember stuff, like what happened that night my Mamma was killed, doesn't mean that it's never affected me. She thinks it will have had a profound impact.

I didn't like the first therapist I saw; he was too clinical; I felt judgement in his eyes, but I kinda like Ida, she's kooky and she gets it. Me.

Luke's trial is about to start and the DA is still wanting to add the domestic violence charges to his rap sheet. I won't have to stand up in court, but they'll read my evidence out. Those photos Charlotte took of me would be shown.

"Why would it make you weak?"

"Because it's exposing all these—all these flaws that allowed me to get treated like that in the first place. It shows my weaknesses. It's embarrassing. That's how I feel. Ashamed."

"Or, maybe it shows everyone how strong you are. How brave you are… to be here, pursuing justice, getting him to face up to his actions, because you're here, Mia. And you're living, despite it all. That's something to be proud of; not ashamed."

I'm quiet.

"Do you think I should go through with it? Like, seriously?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It's what you think. What you feel. How long do you have to decide?"

I chew my lower lip, my tongue darting out to wet it. "'Til midday on Thursday."

She nods. "You'll make the right decision for you, Mia. You just have to remember that you were wronged, not him. Being a victim doesn't make you weak. It makes you a survivor, and survivors are strong. You are strong."

I don't feel strong.

Not one little bit.

…

Sitting on the bathroom floor, hand curling into the shaggy pink bathmat, the shower drips in a 'yes/no' debate. My finger hovers over the call button. When it lands on a 'yes' drip and doesn't drip again, I take it as a sign from the universe.

I press call with only five minutes to spare.

"OK." I swallow, body trembling. "OK. Do it."

...

Miles is waiting for me after work, casually leant against a new black beamer across the street. He looks tired and unhappy, but he manages a small smile when he sees me, straightening out.

The sky is pastel pink and orange, casting everything in a warm glow, promising something like summer heat later on.

I say bye to Tara and Aliyah as I walk down the steps, almost a little too giddy to see him, my heart racing in my chest. I reached out. I asked him to be here, for me. For the trial.

There's awkwardness when I reach him, where we would have normally kissed, but I stop short and we just sort of stare at each other. His smile fades and my gut twists as his eyes find the ground. He looks as dejected as I feel, and the rush of want and love and need hits me like a punch in the face because I've missed him, so, so much.

Without thinking I fling myself at him, a soft grunt leaving his mouth as I wrap my arms around his waist, hoping that he's not going to push me away. His body is tense for all of a split second before he relaxes, arms coming around me.

I inhale him deeply, that citrusy scent I love so much, the hardness of his body underneath his clothes, the comfort that being wrapped up in him always brings.

"I miss you," I confess into his chest.

His hand comes to stroke the back of my hair, the other touching the bare skin of my waist and then he plants a soft kiss to the top of my head. "Fuckin' same," he murmurs. I hug him a little harder, relieved he feels the same.

"You ready for Monday?" he asks when I'm settled in new black leather, fiddling with the laces that criss-cross over the splits in my skirt,

I shake my head, still uneasy with his involvement in setting Luke up. Did he deserve it; yes. Does it make it morally right? I don't know.

He explained properly when I'd calmed down, when I wanted to know more. Luke was the one who went for it. Agreed to bring in the drugs across state lines. All Miles did was dangle the bait and anonymously tip off the cops. Luke didn't know it was him, it was all very underhand, done through associates. He might've been caught anyway. Miles didn't make him do anything.

And he set it all up for me, to keep me safe.

I think I know now what Vince meant when he said 'all out', now and I can't get my head around why he'd do all that for me.

But am I ready?

"No. I'm not," I answer him honestly. I'm not ready for him to hear about everything either, every facet of Luke and me. "But I just... I want it over and done with now. This has been draggin' on for too long." I sigh and lean my head against the window of his car, the vibrations making my teeth rattle. When I look over at him, he's looking sorry, he says it too, heartfelt.

"What happened to the Mustang?" I ask, curious, changing the subject.

"Felt like a change," he responds, like it's no big deal.

He drives us to Tara's. It's almost like visiting the scene of a crime; the last time he was here was a bloodbath of feelings. It wasn't pretty. It's where our relationship flatlined. This, though. Him being here with me right now feels like the start of resuscitation.

He's cautious stepping into my room, but it's not like what it was. I've decorated. Painted over the horrible floral wallpaper in white, hung up calming pictures of abstract flowers. I bought a desk so I can write in the journal that Irina asked me to keep and study for my GED. I'm making progress and I want him to see that.

He picks up my journal but doesn't open it.

"I know, it's very teen girl but Ida insisted, so I don't forget things that I need to talk to her about. You can look at it but it's kinda depressing."

"You said you like her though?"

"She's… like, it's creepy how well she just gets things. I didn't like it at first but she's helped me work on my shit so… she helped me write my statement actually. It'd have been all over the place if she hadn't."

He puts it down gently and then stares at a photo of me and him I have pinned on the noticeboard. We're in bed and he's looking at me like I've hung the moon. I'm laughing, happy. Truly happy. It's grainy, and a little blurred but I like it.

A flush creeps onto my cheeks, embarrassed that I have it up when we're not even together anymore.

"I don't think I ever told you cus I'm - well, like- I just, I keep things inside. Out of habit cus he'd just… tear me down, use it against me." I'm cringing at myself but I take a deep breath anyway. "But I just want you to know that you made me really happy and I..."

I trail off already berating myself for opening my mouth.

Ida has talked me through what she thinks my issues are. I'm emotionally guarded, I have intrusive thoughts, my anxiety manifests itself in different ways; mood swings, disassociation, avoidance. There's other things she's mentioned: post-traumatic stress disorder; panic disorder, things that I don't want to be labelled as.

And I'm trying; trying to understand these things, trying to talk through difficult memories; trying to change the way I think because those are labels I don't want. And I want to be better not just for me, but for him.

"I want that again, with you." His eyes meet mine and I think I stop breathing. I hesitate, even though I want nothing more than just that.

"You might—" I stop, finding it difficult to find the right words. "There's stuff I worry will make you look at me differently. That might come out, this week." I bite my lip feeling wobbly.

"Nothin' would make me look at you differently, Mia."

"But you don't—"

He's over to me then, cradling my face, his hands warm on my cheeks.

"Literally, nothing."

He says it like he means it. He kisses my forehead and I rest my head against him for a second before pulling back.

"I really hope you mean that."

…

He sleeps over for the first time in forever, his weight next to me, holding me close and I love it. I love him. I shimmy closer to him and he groans sleepily.

"You carry on wriggling your ass on my dick we're gonna have a big problem," he murmurs.

"Big?" I tease.

He growls, lips against the back of my neck, tingles all down my spine. "You know it."

...

Sitting at the back of the public gallery, hidden, I squeeze Miles's hand with my own clammy one. He leans in and kisses my temple. These little affections are what I'm living for, I revel in each one, savoring them, initiating them when I feel brave. They make my heart skip, hopeful.

We sit through it all. Day after day after day and then the next day and the next. I'm not sure why I'm here but I feel like I need to be.

Every night Miles comes home with me and every night I sleep in his arms. We rarely talk about what went on in court. Miles reads questions aloud from mock GED tests and I try and answer; we order takeout or I cook for him and we talk; sometimes about the important things, sometimes the not so important. And we flirt, a lot. So much so, Tara pretends to throw-up, dramatic sound effects included.

"Urgh, sickening."

"Nah, sickening is having to hear you and Vince go at it," I retort. He's been over a few times recently and I've never felt so uncomfortable in my own house.

"Paybacks a bitch. But seriously, you twos are doing my head in. Just kiss and make-up already. I'm at work tonight so the house is all yours." She draws out the last part suggestively as she gets up and winks as she leaves the room.

There's an uncomfortable silence after she leaves. I don't think it's as easy as that. Just kissing and fucking and everything being OK. When I glance up from my tub of Chinese, Miles is looking at me like he wants to do just that.

"Not yet," I tell him, inspecting a spring roll. He tilts his head leaning back on his arms.

"Whenever you're ready."

I tell him I want him to hear my statement first because I don't think I could bear it if he changed his mind.

...

It's on the last day they read my words in court; they show my pictures, the damage Luke caused. My face black and blue and bloody, eyes swollen shut, my neck with fingerprints. I can remember the burn of trying to breathe afterwards, the time I passed out when he did it too long. It's a small snapshot; it's not all of it. It's not every single time he made me feel worthless or scared or he hurt me, physically or emotionally. But it's proof that it happened.

Luke gets reprimanded more than once for interrupting. He throws his hands up, he sneers and tuts and spits vitriol. He's unrepentant and I think that's the hardest thing to swallow. He's a caricature of himself, with only the ugly parts emphasised. His humanity, gone. Destroyed by… Well, I'm not sure. I'm not sure how he got so… mean. So fucked up.

The judge warns him he'll be in contempt of court if he doesn't be quiet.

The prosecutors play up my age: young, no parents, no caretaker. I was vulnerable, I was taken advantage of. Naive.

They insist that it was a "sustained campaign of coercive, controlling behavior resulting in physical violence when the victim did something you deemed her at fault for." She makes a point of telling the jury what he said, that day in the prison. "And I quote, 'Fuck you, you little bitch. I shoulda killed you when I had the chance.'"

Miles gets angrier by the second, one hand woven with mine, holding it tightly, the other curled into a fist, skin stretched white.

I stare at the floor, tracing the lines of the parquet pattern with my eyes, over and over again. I'm oddly detached, like everything that happened, happened to someone else. When they read out how he forced me to have sex, Miles is vibrating with rage. He rises from his seat, swearing, looking like he's about to leap down there and smash Luke' face in. I tug him back down into his seat, fury morphing into complete devastation; for me.

Luke calls me a liar. Says it never happened. "She still stayed," he says. "She still let me fuck her." He tells them I had sex with him the first day we met. He says I loved it rough. Says I'd beg for it. I just took it the wrong way that time. It's what I wanted, even when I said no.

I don't realize I'm moving until I'm outside the room, my heart pounding, head dizzy, dodging through crowded corridors until I'm out in the open air, fresh air filling my lungs. I'm panicking, memories hitting me like an unrelenting wall.

Miles finds me in the park across the street, by the pond, hands resting on the black metal fence, the sun shining warm on the tops of my shoulders, trying to stop the panic from engulfing me.

Maybe I should've told him what was in there before, but I couldn't. I could barely write it. It was supposed to be therapeutic in itself, Irina had said, and I guess it was. I felt better afterwards.

It doesn't make me feel much better right now though. What if they believe him over me? What if everyone thinks I'm a liar? That I was asking for it? Just like he said?

I look at Miles then, my bottom lip trembling. He's over to me instantly, lifting me up in his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist.

"Fuck, Mia. If I'd have known..." He trails off unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

He pulls back and his lips are on mine, kissing me so hard it breathes life back into me.

"You're everything to me. Everything. I hope you know that."

I blink down at him, caught off guard by his candidness. But then he smiles and I can't help but laugh.

I kiss him this time, and it's the best kind of kiss, the one that leaves my stomach flipping and my heart bursting.

Because he's everything to me too.

...

Pulling my jeans down over my hips, kissing my belly, hands skimming the tops of my thighs; there's hesitation in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"Don't do that," I beg. "You said. You said you wouldn't look at me differently and you are. I'm not going to break, I promise."

He stops and studies me, dark eyes moving over my face.

"OK."

He works me over with his mouth and his fingers, languidly, until I'm right on the edge and then he keeps me there, waiting, teasing.

"Miles," desperation laces my voice.

He looks up from between my legs, my clit on his tongue. "Mia." He licks and I gasp, hips raising, desperate for more.

Instead, he moves up my body, hands sliding over me, making me arch into his touch until he's brushing his lips against mine.

"I've missed you so much," I mumble into his mouth.

"You got no idea," he breathes. My hand finds him as he hovers, smooth skin under my palm, groaning as I stroke him up and down, rolling my wrist, fluidly, until we can't wait any longer.

He slides in slow. His hand is in mine, every push and pull intense, all-consuming, the way he looks at me; I hope I reflect it back, the utter adoration I feel for him.

When I crumble, a tear sliding down my cheek, he's right there with me.

Sex is sex, fucking is fucking, but this feels like love.

…

He's not there when I wake up, his space beside me lukewarm. I tiptoe out of bed and I see him, stood on his balcony, shirtless and smoking, talking on the phone in the half-light of dawn.

His voice carries in the stillness of the night.

"— it's good, yeah? Then put the hit out. I want him dead."