I

The drive to Donna's apartment from Tribeca takes forever. The elevator ride up to her floor is endless. When Harvey gets to door 206 he is half convinced she won't be there.

There is a reason attached to his fear, something subconscious lurking in the background. He can feel it in the rapid thoughts reeling through his mind, but he refuses to slow down and analyze them.

Closet still full of her clothes, cell phone on the counter…

She never came back.

He pounds at her door, more abrasive than he intends to but his fist seems to have fallen into rhythm with his hammering heart. He hears music on the other side, someone laughing, seconds pass and stretch out in his mind.

I was throwing fists at a steel door that was never going to open.

He's about to knock again, maybe even kick the door in, when he hears the deadbolt slide.

Rachel, looking visibly drunk, greets him in the doorway. "Harvey?" She runs a hand through her hair, smiles lazily at him. "What are you doing here?"

He ignores Rachel—a bad habit he intends to work on—and peers around her, trying to catch a glimpse of the redhead. That's all he needs, a glimpse, just to see her inhabiting the same space as him; a surmountable, within-reach distance because at the moment it feels like she's thousands of miles away.

The laugher he heard comes from Gretchen. The older woman is sitting on Donna's couch, one hand clenching her stomach, the other wiping tears from her eyes as she watches Louis flail around in front of her to the Latin beat of Hips Don't Lie. Harvey has witnessed this exact dance routine on at least four separate occasions (and will never admit it aloud but it's actually sort of impressive).

Mike is across the room, seated at the dining table—although Harvey would hardly call it seated, it's more like the kid's collapsed down into a lazy, jaunty angled heap, feet kicked up carelessly on whatever surface occurred to him. He is stuffing his face with pizza and looking off toward the commotion in the living room with an expression that is both amused and bewildered. Donna is notably absent from the scene.

Harvey moves passed Rachel, who even in her drunken state still shrinks back, instinctively terrified by him.

Mike notices Harvey in his peripheral. "Uh-oh. Party's over. Captain Dickhead's here."

Harvey throws a thumb toward Louis, who is mid-way through a graceful body roll. "You calling this a party?"

"Pizza. Booze. Entertainment." Mikes shrugs and sips his beer, his attention never leaving Louis' bizarre performance. "Honestly, I think we all needed this. For morale, you know? Those DoJ cases have us biting each—"Mike's face falls in awe. "Seriously, how is he even doing that? He has to be dislocating something. That's incredible."

"You should see him do She Wolf," Donna voice composedly calls from the kitchen.

Harvey is flooded with relief. All around him the room brightens as if someone has turned the dial up on dimmer switch. He goes to her, giving Mike a cursory shoulder squeeze on his way. "Good, let's keep up the morale," he says. The kid watches him go by with parted lips. Horrified by the affectionate touch.

In the kitchen Donna is pouring tortilla chips into a bowl. She is still dressed for work, looking presidential compared to her casual party-goers. The dress she has on fits her form so flawlessly Harvey is distracted for a moment by the pronounced curves of her trim figure. He wants to unwrap her. See what she's made of. An unwelcome desire seeps into his blood stream, pools down to his groin. He is a thief, stealing intimate glances because he can't afford the real thing. It makes him feel dirty and shamefully inappropriate, almost like he's getting off on his sister.

He forces his attention to her as a whole, blames his lust on the fact that he hasn't had one out in a while. Should have had that girl last night, now he's all pent up. Frustrated.

Sensing his gaze, Donna peers up. Her normally bright eyes are dark and unreadable, giving her this pale, weary appearance that starkly contrasts her usual fiery vibrancy. It's like Donna's soul has been sucked out and what's left is something severe and alien.

Harvey becomes hyperaware of his own appearance: wet from the rain, windblown, maybe even smelling of dog. He tries not to look guilty of the fact that half an hour ago he was standing in a kitchen disturbingly similar to the one he's in now, chatting with her ex-husband, and he thinks the effort only makes him look more guilty. He feels naked in front of her, stripped down to his insides. He imagines she's seeing parts of him he doesn't even know about. It's not fair. He is a glass display and she's an elusive black hole. And what is that face? Is she sad? Mad? Disgusted? Indifferent? He doesn't know. He can't read her. And he doesn't understand how—after all this time—he can still be so clueless.

She advances toward him on bare feet, four inches shorter than he's used to. Less empowering and oddly vulnerable, this should boost his confidence but those harsh eyes make him anxious.

She reaches out, touches his lapel. "You ever heard of an umbrella?" She asks. Her words are playful. Her tone isn't. She is suspicious, pinning him up for inspection: Where have you been?

He throws dry banter back at her: "I figured this suit could use a good wash." It's like he's reading from a script but the emotions don't match the scene. He'd like to tell her it's none of her damn business where he's been.

She hums and steps closer to him. They have an unspoken boundary and she is boldly pushing at it. He tries not to breathe her in, knowing the scent of her hair and her skin will bring to the surface the memories he spends too much of his energy repressing. His mind tells him to step away. His instinct tells him to step closer. Psychologically he's a teeter-totter but physically he is unaffected. "Wash wasn't that good," she whispers. "You still have dog hair on your trousers."

Shit.

She stares him down. Waits for an explanation, but he doesn't offer one. An expression crosses her face—disappointment?—and then she's stepping away, turning around, walking off. He doesn't know what else to do but follow her.

She leads him out of the kitchen, down the hall and through the open doorway of her bedroom. Having come this way once a decade ago he gets the odd sense of Déjà vu mixed with a poignant twinge of nostalgia. The repressed memories don't just surface, they boil over.

II

11 years ago

They lay beside each other, sprawled out in an after sex slackness, perspiration clinging to their naked skin. The half-moon indent of her nails still show their bite marks into his bicep. Her pale body glows under the city lights, too pure, too perfect. She looks like a photograph and he knows this image of her will never leave his head. He will take this to his grave.

"Is your mom a musician too?" she asks. Her voice has taken on a sexy rasp from its earlier exertion.

Normally the invasiveness of this question would piss him off (the subject of his mother is off-limits, she knows this), but he's already lying bare beside her. He answers her willingly—maybe even eagerly. Pillow talk. He gets it now. "A painter. Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious to know how the son of couple of artists ends up as a Manhattan attorney."

He lifts himself onto his elbow and smiles down at her through the darkness. "I thought you knew everything."

She turns to face him. "I might have it worked out."

"Let's hear it."

"Well, artists are known for being abstracted, living inside their imaginations, detached from the real world…maybe even a little naïve. Someone in your family had to be the grounded one. The realist that holds on to the responsibility while everyone else gets to live with their head in the clouds. I know that's not Marcus because every time he calls he's telling me about some new wild venture he's on. So that leaves you."

Suddenly he sees himself at fifteen, watching his parents fight because the IRS hit them with a penalty for a missing self-employment schedule. He sees his brother acting up because they couldn't afford the trainers he wanted for his birthday that year. He sees his family fall apart, blaming each other rather than an overly complicated system that treated them unjustly. He sees himself researching tax law for months, finding a clause he could manipulate, writing a letter of appeal. He sees the refund check in the mail, hears his dad ask incredulously "How?" He tells him, it was easy. But it wasn't easy, just necessary…

Someone in the family had to be the grounded one.

"I never thought of it like that," he admits.

"It makes me sad." She scoots closer to him, places her hand on his chest. His heart leaps, like it's trying to press itself against his ribcage to make contact with her fingertips. It flutters, beating out to her in Morse code: Take me, I belong to you. "I feel like there is a part of you that wants to be reckless and irresponsible. That wants to escape all of this and get lost, but you've been conditioned to keep your feet set so firmly to the ground with all of your goals and ambitions. I hope you don't get bitter. This city is a grim place to be stuck on the ground in—that stench of piss constantly oozing from the sidewalk, all this pollution and litter. You can't even see the sky properly at night. When is the last time you've seen a star? Or the moon for that matter."

"Do you always get this deep and philosophical after sex?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She kisses his shoulder absently. The freeness of her gesture allows him to let loose some of his restraint. He reaches over, cups the side of her face, trails his thumb lightly across her cheekbone. He wants to tell her she's beautiful, but he feels like this would be too forward. Instead he leans in to kiss her, but before he can get close enough to close the gap she's whispering against his lips: "I'll worry about you now that we're not working together. I know you're destined for greatness, but will you be happy?"

He pulls back, searches her eyes. "You don't think greatness will make me happy?"

"You're the son of artists, Harvey. You're sensitive deep down in there and you're going to need something more substantial than your name on some door."

"So what are you saying? I should give up being an attorney? Go paint my body in mud and interpretive dance to Congolese music?"

She grins at the image. "Is that what you want?"

"No. I want to be managing partner of my own firm. I don't want my name on some door; I want my name on the wall."

"Fine. But I still think you should do some soul searching now that you're done with the DA. You know, that whole Eat, Pray, Love thing. Have a foursome. Get a tan. Go to Botswana and meet the king. Stuff like that."

"Botswana has been a republic since the sixties," he corrects. "They have president now."

"Do they? Good for them."

She brings her lips to his, offering him just a touch and he knows she wants more by the way she lingers, eyes half-open. He runs his hand through her hair, grips the back of her neck and tugs her into him. They crash together, open mouthed, tongues meeting fiercely, breaths catching on their desire.

He pulls her on top of him. She breaks the kiss and sits up, straddling his lap, and he lets his gaze wander down the entirety of her fair lithe body, taking in the sex-ruffled waves of her copper hair, the pale hollow of her throat, the delicate protrusion of her collarbone, the perfect slopes of her breasts. He feels greedy. Half-crazed. He can't get enough of her and this scares him. He was so sure the anticipation would be sweeter than the real thing. Isn't that what they always say? Stupidly he went all in, dove into her bed sheets, dove into her, and now the odds are stacking up against him and he's losing it.

"Can I tell you a secret," he asks.

She stares down at him, hands splayed against his chest for leverage; she rolls her hips toward him, gliding her warm wetness up his length. She is as greedy as he is. "You can tell me anything."

"I settled for being an attorney." He takes her by the hard curves of her hipbones, helping her along. She lets out a moan that sinks into his skin and surges through his nerve-endings. Fuck, how can he already need her again? "I really wanted to be a fighter pilot like in Top Gun."

Her dark eyes flicker. She plants herself above him on all fours, face to face, red hair spilling around them like a curtain. He is intoxicated by the smell of her: coconut and lilacs and her sex and his sex mixed together. "We should role-play that."

He tries not to sound too enthusiastic. "You would do that?"

"Of course. But I should warn you. I take my role-playing very seriously. I can be in character for days."

He is watching her lips move as she talks, thinking about kissing her after each syllable, thinking she's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen, thinking certainly he's breaking some kind of natural law of the universe with how quickly he's falling for her. "I'll be Maverick," he says.

"Does that make me Goose?"

"No, I couldn't ruin the sanctity of their platonic bromance."

"Ice man?"

"Nah."

"Charlie?"

He runs his hands down her spine, grips her ass. He tries to push her back down on him, but she's defiant. He's not her boss anymore. Does this make her his boss now? "I want you to be my fighter jet."

She smiles down at him wickedly. "Oh, baby. That's kinky."

He brings a hand back to her neck and coaxes her forward. Their foreheads touch; he kisses her deep, tasting lips, mouth, tongue. "C'mon, then," he whispers, "Give me some sexy airplane noises."

"I can't, Mav. My engines have to be turned on."

"Where's the ignition?"

"I'm not going to recite my damn instruction manual." She pushes her breasts up toward his face. "Fiddle my knobs and find out."

His breath catches at the command. "God, Donna."

"Who's Donna? I'm an F-14."

They both laugh quietly into the darkness and Iloveyou almost falls out of his mouth, but he swallows it back. Nearly chokes on it. She notices. Her expression changes into something more serious, like she's trying to read him and he panics. He grabs her more firmly, this time pulling her upward while sliding himself down so that his face rest centered below her spread legs. He looks up at her over the curve of her cunt, through the swell of her breasts. Her eyes dilate with desire, big black orbs that stare down at him intensely. That crack in his armor is all but forgotten.

She says, "Going straight for the accelerator, I see."

"You know me. I don't mess around." He pulls her hips down and kisses her gently. She breathes in sharp, whispering his name with a pang of urgency. He thinks, I can be in character for days my ass, and nuzzles his face into her cunt, slipping his tongue along her wet seam. Her taste and smell remind him of the sea. Her pussy is the French Polynesia, her hips rock with the waves of Bora Bora waters crashing against the shores of his tongue.

She moans and falls forward, one hand gripping the sheets, the other tugging at his hair. He licks and sucks and she grinds against his face until she's shuddering into an orgasm, crying out to him and god, making them one, linking it with every filthy word he's ever heard. His dick throbs.

He gives her no time to recover. Grabbing her by the hips, he pushes her down on him until he fills her up. She feels abnormally tight, like he's sinking his dick into a warm wet vise. She is squeezing him from the inside, riding him, pouring out months and months of repressed lust. Her appetite is alarming. He wants so badly to be able to appease her but he doesn't think he can last long enough to send her over the edge again.

He forces her still, his hips kissing hers, trying to regain himself. She slinks her way up his chest, lips slightly parted, hair a mess, eyes wild—a sexy little predator out to fuck him to death. He can't help but grin, hugely, like he's five years old and its Christmas morning. She says, "Fuck me," and rakes her hand through his hair, pulling at it a little bit like she needs his undivided attention. He moves inside of her again, slow and teasing. She continues on, her breath hot against his lips: "Tear me apart. Hollow me out until all that's inside of me is you. You, with your sweet sweet artist soul, paint my insides. I'm your Sistine chapel, Harvey, carve your name all over my walls."

He loses it entirely. He wraps his arms around her and slams himself deep into that maddening heat. She moans, nails digging in his chest and her voice falls soft and seductive in his ear, urging him on.

His entire body spasms and he cums so hard he feels like he's gone blind from the rush. He's whispering her name, over and over again. Donna. For every stolen glance. For every eager dream. For every clandestine smile. Donna. Donna. Donna. He thinks she's broken him until he feels her lips against his, gentle and unhurried, and the distraction shuts him up.

She starts laughing against his mouth, a beautiful, infectious laugh. He joins in. Pulling away, she says, "How the hell did I go from being a fighter jet to your Sistine chapel all in one sex session?"

"Carve your name all over my walls," he parrots, grinning. "Paint my insides—god, you're filthy."

"You loved it. I saw your eyes roll back into your head. I thought you were having a seizure for a minute."

"Definitely convulsing. You should come with a warning label."

Day is breaking. The silhouettes of her bedroom gain color and intricacies. For the first time tonight they've fallen silent, clinging to each other, already in a state of mourning. This is their end. The fork in the road where he goes one way and she goes another. He has ended relationships before—many, he's good at it—but this time it feels like he's cutting himself in half and leaving behind the very best parts of him.

He finds himself thinking about what she said earlier, about how there is a part of him that wants to be reckless and irresponsible, that wants to get lost, and he entertains the idea of leaving this concrete path he's laid out for himself and forging a new one with her beside him. He pictures himself stumbling out, hand-in-hand, with this capable, fiery redhead into some unknown. A foursome in Botswana (for her satisfaction; he'll even meet the president), then traveling east, sinking their feet into the sand of the Maldives before it disappears under the ocean. He'll get a tan. She'll try not to burn. He'll give up his suits for swim shorts and grow out his facial hair. Maybe learn to surf. She'll lay out on the beach in a big straw hat and sundress, no panties underneath, watching him face-plant into the waves until she gets tired of it and dives in to show him how it's done. He won't get his name on any doors or walls, but he'll have it attached to her. She'll be the Mrs to his Mr, and maybe that will be enough. They won't buy a house, they'll build one together. He'll get her flowers of every kind: roses, chrysanthemums, tulips, lilacs and not just on special occasions, but because she makes his heart race. He'll fly with her, head in the clouds, faded. He'll be Maverick and she'll be—not his wingman—but his wings. He's got the soul of an artist and she is his canvas and he'll tear the world apart to paint her perfect. And when dawn comes, she will still be in his arms because they have melded together to the point where he doesn't know where she ends and he begins and they are endless.

He wants to confess it all to her. To spill every secret he's ever had. He wants to turn himself inside out, upside down. He wants to tell her that he loves her, loves her in a way he's never loved anyone else, but he's too much of a coward and if he's honest, she deserves better than him anyway.

Saying their goodbyes, she doesn't ask him to call or keep in touch. Not even a 'see you around'. She is standing in the doorway with him, cup of coffee in one hand and a sheet wrapped around her like a little Roman senator, smiling when she says, "I would say good luck out there, but you don't need it."

"You're right," he says, trying to smile as easily as she does. "I don't."

"I'll keep an eye out for you in the paper." She seems to rethink this. "Although as a corporate lawyer, I doubt you'll end up there all that much."

"I'll find a way." Just for you. "And I'll keep an eye on Broadway. I heard Anna Karenina is casting."

"Ooh, I'd love to throw myself in front of a train."

"Don't spoil it for me."

"You've never seen it?"

"I'm not really a fan theater, but I'd watch it if you were in it."

"That's really sweet of you. I'd love to look down and see you snoring in the front row."

"Nothing closer than second, I'll need a footrest."

"Stop it, Harvey, you're making me swoon."

They share a smile, and he sees the goodbye start to come up to her lips and he feels a little like he's going to falling apart so he says quickly, "Let's not make a big show of it."

Donna gives him a small shrug that seems to say "As you wish," and that's enough for him to turn and walk away, leaving that little redheaded Roman peering at his retreating figure with a quirked eyebrow, curious but unhurt. It bothers him, the ease at which she lets him leave and he thinks for the first time that maybe they are feeling things differently. Maybe she looks like she feels nothing because she actually feels nothing; it's logical, but he tries not to dwell. It's not like it matters.

Stepping out into the busy streets of Manhattan, Harvey already feels like less of himself. Ever since she entered his life his whole purpose has come into focus, like his future was a vague idea but having her beside him has helped solidified it. She has been his constant support, driving him forward, unafraid to challenge him when he strays. He feels terrified that he can't do this on his own, that he needs her too much, and he wishes for a place where he is made in a way that will let him and her fit together. A place where he doesn't have to choose between loving her and leaving her and then he realize—in what feels like an earth shattering epiphany—that they already had that place. The DA. It was just the right amount of closeness and separateness that he was content.

He could keep her. Hit rewind. Go back to being boss and secretary. The perfect relationship in Harvey's mind: close, but not close enough for things to get complicated. No one gets hurt. Symbiotic. Win-win. He'll look at her as a functional unit, take her out of his wank-bank, avoid iliac and coconuts and whipped cream and clean lines; he'll never visit the French Polynesia again, or the Sistine chapel for that matter. Probably won't watch Top Gun for a while.

He'll keep her within arm's reach but at arm's length, loving her as a secret, always at the tip of his tongue.

III

Whatever he expects when Donna flicks the light on, it's not the same. The bed is in a different position, beside the window rather than beneath it. The dresser they used illicitly for the convenience of its height is gone, replaced by a silver-threaded chair. The earthly tones are now monochromatic grays. That night may as well have happened centuries ago. Everything has changed since then, especially them. They are not those people anymore. The memories in his head, they happened in someone else's lifetime, and all Harvey can think is: how did we go from there to here?

The bedroom door clicks shut. They stand together in silence, him and her and the ghosts of their former selves—overlapping, blending, blurring; he's seeing her with double vision. Seeing an alternative of what they could've, would've, should've been.

And now here they are.

Donna color heightens. Her eyes are smoldering. She lays into him fiercely: "You went to see Jonathan."

He nods. No point in denying it. "Despite that 'friendly gesture' bullshit you tried to spin this morning I know when I'm being threatened."

"That wasn't a threat, Harvey, that was bait and you latched right on to it."

"What else was I supposed to do? I'm not going to back down. He went to Mike's home," he says. "Where he lives with Rachel."

She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. When she regains herself, her voice comes out soft but firm. "This isn't just some case. This is my life. That's my ex-husband. A man I haven't seen or spoken to in more than a decade and now you're taking meetings with him behind my back. How do you think that makes me feel?"

God, he's nearly giddy with rage. How dare she try to turn this around and act as if she's the victim here. She wounded him—wounded them. His voice escalates, turns harsh. "I don't care how it makes you feel, and honestly, Donna, I don't have to tell you shit. You lost that right by keeping all of this from me."

Her breath catches. She gives him a long, painful look. He tells himself she deserves this but wonders why his heart kind of feels like it's shattering. Didn't he come here to fix this? Why is he making it worse?

"You don't think I wanted to tell you?" she says. "This has sat so big and so constant on my mind for years. It was just never a good time."

"So you let me find out like this. With this whole fucking thing collapsing down on me the week I become managing partner. Do you even realize what this is doing to me? I can't think about anything else. None of this makes any goddamn sense and you still haven't even mentioned Alice—"

He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. The single word "Alice" hangs between them. Like the name has been hidden away for so long it comes out with a perceptible dust that lingers in the air.

Donna goes rigid. Something inside her shifts, a reflex to whatever pain he's stimulated by bringing up her little girl. He sees that steel door Jonathan spoke of start to swing shut and he wonders if he has enough time to wedge himself through. When she finally speaks her voice is calm, reasonable, and completely disconnected. "What is there to say? I had a daughter. She died. The subject is pretty limited."

"Really, Donna?"

"What the hell do you want out of me? Should I fall over and start sobbing, screaming god why oh why has this happened to me? I have mourned, Harvey. I promise you I have cried enough tears for two lifetimes, so don't you worry about the state of my emotions because they are there. I am sad to my core."

Her admission breaks him. He feels his edges fraying. He wants to drop to his knees and beg her, please, just let me in. Let me take some of your hurt and make it my own. I have room. "I'm not questioning how you handle your grief. I'm questioning why you kept this from me."

"Because I'm not actually sure you cared enough to want to know," she confesses, her voice rising up to meet his, a mix of anger and frustration and maybe a dash of pain. "I mean, it's not like I went out of my way to avidly hide any of this. And it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I had a life before you. I am a person, you know. I inhale. I exhale. My heart fucking beats. It's like you want to believe that I fell from the clouds, a gift from god to serve you and your needs, and outside of that I'm a blank slate. White noise."

Harvey shakes his head, baffled, wondering if she actually believes the bullshit she's throwing at him. "Just last night you accused me of being in love with you," he points out. "And now suddenly I don't care enough about you to see you as a person? Which is it, Donna?"

"Both. You can love someone for everything they give you and not care for who they are beyond that. It's called being selfish."

"So this is all my fault then?"

"No, Harvey. In an ideal world, no one should be at fault. I'm your secretary; I'm allowed to keep my personal life private and you are under no obligation to want to know me."

"Donna, our relationship is more than just professional and you know that."

"There you go again, saying this is more, but what does that mean?"

He glares at her, clenches his jaw. "You don't think I realize what you're doing here? You want me to back down by bringing up a conversation you think I'll run away from. But I'm not going anywhere until I get some goddamn answers."

Donna lets out something between a scoff and a sardonic laugh. "Harvey, if I wanted to send you running I wouldn't even have to open my mouth. You cower if I step too close."

Not wanting to respond to this, Harvey changes course, "How the hell has this conversation become about me when you're the one with all the secrets?"

"What do you want from me?" She throws up her hands, lets them fall, shakes her head. "Do you want me to kneel before you in confession and pour out my deepest and darkest—rip my soul from my body so you can finally see me. Because I'm warning you, I'm not the Donna you think I am. There is nothing awesome about the wreckage inside of me. I am angry and resentful, ashamed and guilty. My heart aches all the time. You want answers? Well so do I. I would love to know when it will all stop hurting or what I did wrong or why I had to lose everything I ever fucking had." Her voice breaks. She inhales uneasily, shaken, and Harvey stares, frozen, traumatized, watching her as she crumbles, afraid to even breathe as if his exhale might be what collapses her. "I failed at a whole life, Harvey. Is this what you want to hear?"

He didn't want to hear any of this, he realizes, and he definitely doesn't want to hear anymore. He's in over his head, charging in here, demanding answers and explanations that he can't stomach and not because he doesn't care but because he cares too much. Seeing her weak scares the shit out of him. She is his pillar, his foundation. If she goes down, he goes down with her.

"Donna, I…" And he doesn't know what to say. That it's not fair that this has happened to her. That he hates it. That if he could soothe her mind and take it all for himself, he would do it in a heartbeat. It won't be enough. He can't say what he should to her. He can't find the words to fix this, to make it all better, and it kills him.

And his time is up. Someone is knocking at the bedroom door. Mike, muffled: "You guys know we can hear you shouting at each other."

Donna shakes her head, wipes a tear from her eye and gives Harvey a heartbreaking stare, disappointed but unsurprised. He's failed her.

She goes to the door, but before she opens it, she says without looking at him, "I'm sorry I did this to us."

He would have rather she called him a coward, told him she hated him, because the selflessness of her apology just makes him feel ashamed.