He can't take it. He can't take the honesty, the vulnerability, the pain. He can't take her kindness. He'd expected - he'd wanted her to say that he could take his pain and shove it. Who gives a shit. You made your bed; lie in it. Instead those soft words of forgiveness and compassion. And so he cracks, a little, lets out a sarcastic - "How noble." It's jeering, self-pitying, cruel; he regrets it at once, shaking his head. Not to her. Not to her.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. Glares down at the floor. Tightly, he says, "This is - things as they are. There's no undoing anything. Either we move forward or we rot. Which do you want?"