Slap.

"I hate you."

Yes, you hate him. Truer words were never spoken.

But not because he's stupid. Or irritating. Or illogical. No, that's certainly not why you hate him. In fact, you admire his irksome qualities: his chivalry, courage, cockiness, determination, intuition. Anyone else, you would be driven to mild insanity. But not him. Anyone else, you would have immediately distrusted. But not him. Anyone else, you would have gone home with them without consideration of the consequences. But not him. And this, this is why you hate him.

Because for all his courage, his bravery, his so-called guts, he did not follow you. He did not run after that taxi, he did not push to get what he wanted, he did not give in to the passion that you know he was feeling just as much as you were. He did not fight for you. And you hate him because he was supposed to.

All your life, people had given up the fight. Your parents left and never returned. Your brother gave up on you and handed you over to foster care. Michael had left too, after your usefulness as a glorified fuck buddy had run its course. Nameless other men, who you admit you used for pleasure just as much as they used you, all left, all gone in the morning, either by your choice or theirs. Never had anyone fought for you in your life. But you knew in your heart, which did exist no matter what anyone said, that he was supposed to be the exception.

He had said he was going 'rogue'. He was not afraid to break the pattern. You knew he was a standout sniper, an exemplary agent, and he would take the high road as often as possible and come out better because of it. He was not afraid to take risks. Well, obviously, he was a gambler. And you know that he told you that because he saw how much potential there was between the two of you.

But he didn't fight. Didn't run after you. Gave in. Gave up.

You hate him.