Breathing.
Silence.
"She saved my life when we were kids." His voice came out muffled, sudden. "I was eight. I fell into a river and she jumped in after me. She nearly drowned too."
I closed my eyes.
"So I..." he said. "If something happens to her, I can't just do nothing."
"I know."
"Then why are you—"
"Valentine." I opened my eyes and stared at the fog on the glass. "She saved you when you were eight. I met you when I was twenty-four."
He said nothing.
"She saved your life, and you've carried that debt for twenty years." I said. "I gave you ten years of mine. Did you ever carry that?"
"I did."
"Carried what, exactly?"
He went silent again.
"You remembered that I cooked for you. That I did your laundry. That I kept the apartment clean." I said. "You remembered that I waited for you, no matter how late you came home. You remembered that I never made a scene, never started a fight, never asked you for anything."
"..."
"You remembered that I was easy." I said. "That I was low-maintenance. That I'd always be there, never needing your attention, never needing you to worry, never making you afraid of losing me."
The rain eased.