Guilt. Regret. Pain.

Old friends of his — always pulling up a chair, pouring a drink, keeping him company whether he asked or not. His life was a messy trail of all three, stitched together by one bad decision after another. Trusting the wrong people, betraying the right ones. Ruining the things he touched, like some damn curse he was too stubborn to admit he carried.

Remy knew bad decisions like he knew the back of his hand. Could trace every scar, every burned bridge with his eyes closed. Got excommunicated from the Thieves Guild, left Bella Donna behind, tied himself to Sinister like a damn fool — then broke Rogue’s heart clean in two.

Some sins weighed heavier than others, but they all rode his back just the same.

Normally, he’d smoke them away. Drink util his head stopped pounding. But he’d quit the cigarettes — for you. Cut back the bourbon, too. Which left him here, sober enough to drown in his own head, lying next to you in the dark, spinning circles in his mind.

And Lord, the thoughts were loud tonight.

You were tucked against his side, breathing soft and even, and here he was — lying awake next to the best damn thing that ever happened to him and still thinking about running.

He didn’t deserve this — you. Didn’t deserve the warmth of your body pressed up against his, the trust you handed him like he was worthy of it.

God, he was pathetic.

He could already picture it.

He’d slip out of bed, pack light — he’d done this dance before, knew exactly which doors creaked and which ones didn’t. He’d vanish like a ghost, disappear into the noise of the world until you forgot he was ever here. Until the sting of his absence turned into nothing but a bad dream you barely remembered. You deserved that much mercy.

Because sooner or later, he’d ruin this. He always did. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day you’d wake up and realize you’d hitched yourself to a sinking ship. He didn’t know how not to wreck good things.

"A man like me? Built for leavin’. Hell, leavin’s all I ever been good at."

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to fix himself. He’d quit smoking, cut down on the drinking, stayed outta the seedy places he used to haunt like a second home. But changing didn’t scrub away the man he was.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His head was a storm, thoughts hitting him one after the other, each uglier than the last.

Remy hated how small he felt when the doubt set in, like he was just some dirty kid from the streets again, scrapping to survive, always ready to bolt before anyone could kick him out first.

But then you moved against him, soft little sound in your throat, snuggling closer like your body knew he was thinking something stupid. Your hand settled on his chest, and just like that — the storm in his head eased up. Not gone. Never gone. But quieter.

His red-on-black eyes drifted down to you, his whole face softening in a way he didn’t let the world see. Still his throat burned with a guilt he couldn’t swallow. You made him feel human. God help him, you made him feel loved.

“What de hell’s in my head, eh?” he muttered under his breath, voice gravel-thick and low, half ashamed of himself. His fingers brushed your back, gentle, like he was scared he’d wake you — or worse, scare you off just by touching you wrong.

“Cher... I’m losin’ my damn mind, I swear.” Maybe he was. But still — he stayed. For tonight, at least... he stayed.