Obliviousness had been your constant companion for a few years, at this point.

You hated it, you hated that you could tell yourself 'Patrick is Patrick' and go on with your day like none of it meant anything. Like you didn't care that he would come home sometimes smelling different, someone else's perfume lingering on the fabric of his shirt.

Maybe it was that you still loved him, and he always came home. If he spent the entire night, you would leave him. That's what you told yourself, pathetically promising that if he just went a little further, hurt you a little more, you'd be gone.

That was never true, and you knew it wasn't, so sometimes you wondered why you thought it at all. Because you did love him, and you knew he loved you. In his own twisted, cruel way, Patrick Zweig loved you to the bone.

So when he finally did stay out all night, you didn't pack a suitcase and go. You stayed. You slept, you made the bed, and you started a pot of coffee. And that's when he walked through the door, as the smell of roasted beans floated through the kitchen.

There was no sorry from him, not even a single sound except for that of the shower starting once he reached it.

In a way, you couldn't even bring yourself to be infuriated. Probably just because you were tired. From lack of sleep or from being his, though, you weren't quite sure.

When he finally did stalk back in through the living room, making his way into the kitchen, it felt worse. So when he reached for the coffee pot, you took it, swinging it close to yourself, like it was the heart that you were finally guarding.

But any heart is one he would surely break. After grabbing for it again, he let out a low groan. "Baby, c'mon. I thought you weren't being like this anymore."

Another move away from him, keeping the pot to yourself, and you could see the frustration form more thoroughly. "Can you stop being a bitch for a second? I'm tired."