[He keeps himself guarded, not reacting until her apologies (always empty, always too late and meaningless) take a 180 that calls him out. Mismatched eyes seem to burn with anger and frustration, red-rimmed like he wants to cry but he can't. The thin line of his mouth tugs into an empty, bitter smile, all of the resentment and hatred directed not at the person sitting parallel to him, his enemy, but himself.]

I just revealed my soul to you, and you're going to call me a brat. I mean you're not wrong but that's kinda uncalled for.

[He takes a long sip of his drink.]

But I've survived, haven't I? So being good really doesn't matter. [He taps his fingers on the table nervously.] Will you buy me another coffee?