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"Yes."

"You built my father a place to live."

"Yes."

"And now you're standing here telling me this is over like you're giving notice on an apartment."

His jaw tightens.

"It's not like that."

I look back at him.

"Then what is it like?"

For the first time, he hesitates.

That should comfort me. It doesn't.

Because if he's hesitating, then he knows how this sounds. He knows how impossible this is from where I'm standing, and he's saying it anyway.

"We had a good time," he says at last, and his voice is lower now. Rougher. "It wasn't all bad, was it? It was... beneficial. For both of us."

There's something in his eyes when he says it.

Not warmth. Something worse.

Hope.

A small, desperate hope that I'll agree with him. That I'll let him turn this into something survivable. That I'll nod and remember it kindly and not hate him for it.

And that is the part I can't make sense of.

Why would he care how I remember this if he's ending it the first second he's allowed to?

My throat tightens so fast it actually hurts.

"Right," I say, because it's the only word I can get out. "Beneficial."

He says my name quietly. "Aria—"

"No." My voice is thin now. Not angry. Just hurt. "No, I'm trying to catch up."

He goes still.

I take one slow breath. Then another.

Do not cry. Do not cry in front of this man while he's handing you an exit interview.

"Because two days ago you were in my bed," I say, and even that comes out softer than I mean it to. More wounded than accusing. "A week ago you were kissing my ring in the owner's box. You asked me for longer. You built all of this." My eyes burn. "And now you're telling me it was... beneficial."

His whole body locks.

For one second—one—I think he might say something real.

He doesn't.

"It got more complicated than it was supposed to," he says.