Why would I want you to hate me? That's the last thing I want.

[ Not that it isn't something he doesn't deserve.

All of the evasions, the distance, the excuses and lies ... he's surprised she'd even let him stay in this apartment for as long as he has.

But the way she pulls away from him ... well, he tries not to let it bother him, because that's his fault too, but it does. He sits back, his head tilted to face her head on whether or not she offers him her attention. Whatever he says next, he leaves their relationship in her hands, whether it be a secret that binds them, or the thing that breaks all of this apart. He'll accept whatever happens; he doesn't really have a choice but to.

With an exhale, Matt gestures to the clothing tumbling in a cycle right now, the hum of the laundry machine filling in the silence between their pained words and bruised hearts. ]

Every time I told you I couldn't see you because I was studying late, or Foggy needed me to wingman for him ... or any of those reasons — I was lying to you. These clothes, and the scarf in the kitchen sink — I wear them to hide who I am from the guys who terrorize Hell's Kitchen.

[ He shakes his head. ]

I think some people have started calling him — me — the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen', or at least that's what I've heard.

[ He tilts his chin downward, as though he can't bear whatever disappointment or anger he expects from his confession.

He adds anyway: ]

There's only so much that the justice system is capable of; I had to learn that the hard way. And tonight I was a little in over my head.