[ He stares down at his boots as they walk, as she lets him have it. It's kind of the coward's way out, but he really doesn't know where else to look, and he's really trying to take to heart everything she's saying.

So, ] I'm sorry.

[ It comes out meek. He really doesn't have an argument against her. Fine for him is relative; he genuinely is fine, but only in the way his broken brain can digest. Stepping back from it all, it makes sense that nobody else would see it the way he does. That's par for the course; the only wonderment here is how he hasn't understood that until now.

(Because he's a bad, selfish person. That's why. He knows that.) ]

You shouldn't have had to worry. I'm sorry I made you. I just... I had to get out of there, before I started hurting people again. I should've— You could've come back with me, I should've told you that, or...

[ His voice trails off helplessly. There were alternatives, and instead he'd gone with his first instinct, which was to threaten her and mean it. And look where that got him, got the both of them. ]

I'll try not to do it again.

[ That's really all he's got, that weak little offer he can't even guarantee. That's the best he can do. It feels worse than everything else he's put himself through over the past several days. ]