Rain tapped on the roof of the car, steady and indifferent. You kept your eyes on the road. Rose sat beside you, arms crossed, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light.

She hadn't said a word since you picked her up.

Her first day off in a month, and she looked more exhausted than ever. Makeup gone, expression unreadable.

"You shouldn’t have pushed yourself this far," you said, keeping your voice neutral.

She took a slow drag, exhaled smoke toward the window. "And you shouldn’t have made it personal," she replied, flatly.

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

Back then, you were worried—pleaded with her to slow down, to rest. She snapped. Called you controlling. Said you were just another suit pretending to care.

And maybe she was right.

"You know," she said suddenly, not looking at you, "I don’t regret it. Not the work. Just trusting you with too much."