The dim glow of Patrick’s phone illuminated his face as he sat on the edge of the bed, swiping with mechanical precision. The screen flickered—another match. He didn’t smile, just let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Still on Tinder?" Your voice broke the silence. He flinched, not realizing you had come back into the room.

He didn’t hide it, locking the screen and tossing the phone onto the nightstand. "It’s not what you think" he said, tone casual, almost bored, his eyes darting anywhere but at you.

"Oh, really?" You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. "What is it, Patrick? A side hustle to make rent? Or are you just bored?"

"What do you want me to say? That I’m charming strangers for Venmo payments? It’s not like I’ve got a trust fund."

Your stomach twisted, but you held your ground. "That’s not the point, and you know it. It’s not about the money. It’s about… this." You gestured toward him—the phone, the empty beer bottle by his feet, the weight of his excuses.

Patrick dragged a hand through his hair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I’ve never claimed to be a saint, okay? I screw up. I make bad calls. But I didn’t think..." His voice faltered, raw and low. "I didn’t think I’d have to defend myself like this. Not with you."

"I hate this," you whispered "I hate that I care enough to keep giving you chances when you don’t even believe you deserve them."

Patrick’s jaw clenched. He looked up, his eyes tired, shadowed by everything he’d buried. "Maybe I don’t deserve them," he admitted quietly. "But I don’t know how to stop. This... mess I’m in? It’s all I’ve ever known."

You stand at the door, looking at him with that same expression he knows all too well: the mix of exhaustion and disappointment that always seemed to end with a sigh and forgiveness. But this time, it doesn’t come. His gaze, the one that silently pleads for another chance, locks onto yours, searching for a shred of understanding.