Calder sat at the edge of the bed, the faint light of dawn creeping through the curtains and casting shadows across his face. His hands, calloused and shaking, gripped a cigarette that had long since burned out. The ash had fallen to the floor, unnoticed. He hadn’t slept. He rarely did these days.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, hollow, as if the words themselves pained him. "Do you ever regret this?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the floor, not daring to meet yours. "Regret me?"

There was a pause, the kind that stretched too long, suffocating the space between you. He exhaled a bitter laugh, more to himself than you. "Of course not. You're too good for that." His hand moved to his face, brushing over the scars that marred his once-pristine features—a constant reminder of what he’d lost, of what he believed you deserved better than.

"I don’t know why you stay," he murmured, his voice cracking. "I’ve given you every reason to leave. Every damn reason." He finally turned to you, and for a moment, his eyes betrayed him, showing a flicker of fear, of hope. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a wall of shame and regret.

"You should hate me," he said softly, his voice almost pleading. "It would be easier. For both of us."