“You’re not going to find any sympathy from me.” Mia took a bite of her dripping ice cream instead of crawling into his lap. The substitution did zip to quell her urge to scoot closer.

He leaned over to an end table and turned on a lamp, again illuminating her movie-watching, cry-fest cocoon. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the new splash of light. His face was clean-shaven. He seemed so big on her couch. Did he always wear tight shirts that made his biceps pop and pants that molded to his muscles? Compared to her frumpy pink pajamas, she looked ridiculous, and far from attractive.

“You have every right to be angry with me.”

The right to be angry? Hell. Anger wasn’t in the same galaxy as how she felt. Anger was too simple. But she didn’t feel like describing the utter remorse sickening her, all because she fell in love with him.

Instead, she pulled herself off the couch. She had things to do, and they were far away from him. He could find his way out, like he found his way in.

“I’m sorry.”

Why did hearing that make it hurt worse? “Just leave.”

“Mia—”

“I can’t do this. Please leave.” She wasn’t going to beg. He had to go.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why?” She turned toward him, frustrated. He stood, imposing and ignoring her pleas. It was infuriating. “Why are you torturing me? You don’t get to say I’m sorry. You weren’t here when I walked into my ransacked house, or each sleepless or nightmare-ravaged night.”

“I—”

“And every day I stayed at the hospital, holding your hand, talking to you about the future. I was a fool. You told me to leave. No, correction, you had the nurse tell me.”

Pain twisted and shredded her soul. Everything between them was gone. It was irreversible. Actions had consequences, and his actions ruined her dreams.

She marched toward him, wrapped her fists in the fabric of his shirt, and did her best to shake him.

“I hate you.” The words were precursory to her bubbling sobs, also uninvited. She dropped her head against his chest and bawled. “I hate how bad this hurts.”

He engulfed her in a hug, rubbing her back, and smoothing her hair. Making it worse.

“Mia, doll. I know sorry doesn’t do shit. But God help me, I thought I was doing the right thing. That you were better off without me. That I was protecting you.”

If he thought that, then he was stupid. She had fallen for a moron. But she kept that secret and didn’t move from the warm, tear-dampened place against his chest. She wanted to crawl into his cradling arms. She wanted to feel him care.

“I was scared,” he said. “For so many reasons. I don’t get scared. I don’t know scared. But I was… I am scared out of my mind.”

“Why?” she whispered without moving her head. Her hands were still wrapped in his shirt.