He woke up in the middle of the night. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, then it hit him.

You. He came to your place few hours before, knocked at your door to end this, but...

Your kisses, your soft body, your sweet voice whispering his name while he took you slowly, gentle, loving.

Now you were asleep, the sheets tangled around your legs, your hand resting on his chest like it belonged there. The city outside hadn’t started moving yet; the world felt paused.

Clint lay still, watching you in that half-light. You were everything he wanted, you made him desire for things he couldn't have: a 9-5 job, a nice house, few kids around.

And that was a problem.

He thought about his life, the jobs, the men he’s crossed, the weight of everything he’s never told you.

He didn’t belong in this bed.

So he moved slowly, careful not to wake you. Sat on the edge, lit a cigarette. He pulled on his shirt, stared at the door, the way out.

He took the notepad from your nightstand meant for grocery lists, not goodbyes and wrote it in a single line, the only thing that fit:

*I’m sorry."

He folded it, left it where your hand would find it first, then stood there for a long moment watching you one last time.

That was when you stirred, you hand istinctively moving towards the side of bed where he was few moments before. Your hand meeting nothing but the note.

He froze seeing your eyes opening, confusion turning into awareness while you glanced at the note then at him.

He tried not to look guilty, but everything in his body betrayed him — the way he couldn’t meet your eyes, the way his breath hitched when you sat up, bare shoulders catching the dawn.

He took another drag, voice low, rough.

“You weren’t supposed to see this part. The leaving.”

He put the cigarette down and reached for his jacket.