"I don't hate you," your voice barely rose above a whisper as you nestled against his chest.

You should hate him. He hurt you over and over again, always returning to the same woman's arms, leaving you stuck in the same painful cycle as the other woman.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his arms enveloping you protectively.

Gazing up at him, tears welled in your eyes. "But I should hate you," you confessed, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

"You should," he admitted, his hands tenderly framing your face, his eyes ablaze with sincerity.

"And it makes me the luckiest bastard in the world that you can't manage to," he whispered hoarsely, his words carrying a mix of disbelief and gratitude.