This isn't weird.

Careless

As hard as he'd tried to understand it, deep down, Ben had remained mystified by Millie's sudden disappearance. The phone call they had shared—just days ago, though by now, it felt like a lifetime—had felt simultaneously like a resolution and a beginning. The truth was out, the air was clear, the worst was over. She'd found Walt, she'd found him, it was a night of joy and reunions, and their conversation had buzzed with a sort of magic. Before that night, Ben never knew that a voice could glow. But hers had. It very much had. How had her energy shifted so drastically over the course of the drive home?

The long, dark, lonely drive home.

At the end of his visit with Molly, Ben had buzzed with his own special sort of energy. It wasn't joy, per se, far from it, but a sense of achievement—the satisfaction of watching a puzzle come together. He'd invested so much time and energy into unwinding the mystery that was Millie McKillip, and while much of it had been painful or even horrific to see up close, he was succeeding. He knew her better now than he'd ever dared to hope.

And over the course of that long, dark, lonely drive, he began to understand her even better.

His mind kept going back to that first photo of Millie's mother, how utterly indistinguishable their faces were from one another, then back to the biting way Millie had described the expected life path for the women in her family—Find the most horrible, worthless, deadbeat drunk they can get their hands on and never, ever fucking let go, no matter how much he hurts them, or their kids, or anybody else.

Almost all of those words were about her father, but every last bit of anger in them was directed at her mother. The woman who had stood by and done nothing. The woman who represented more than anyone or anything else a world where she would never be safe, where nobody would ever protect her. The woman whose face she saw every time she looked in the mirror.

And just as he connected those dots, caught that intimate glimpse of her psyche, it struck him.

That was hers.

That pain. That trauma. That anger. It was hers. Hers, and hers alone.

He wasn't supposed to know this.

He wasn't supposed to know any of this.

Somehow, he'd convinced himself that she'd be touched when she learned about what he had done here. That she would be moved by the lengths he had gone to to understand her. She wouldn't have to carry her burdens alone anymore. He would know the parts of her she had once believed to be unknowable. That was love. True, honest, pure love.

Except, it wasn't.

It dawned on him slowly. Sank in even slower. None of this was for Millie. It had never been for Millie. He'd wanted something from her, and he'd taken it, and in doing so, robbed her of the choice to ever offer it to him freely. He would never know if she ever could have trusted him enough to want to share those parts of herself. She would never have the chance to invite him into her world, because he had already forced his way inside.

It was a violation.

His heart felt like it was sinking into a pool of thick, black sludge, swallowing up whatever sense of victory he'd felt at the beginning of his drive. His long, dark, lonely drive. By the time he arrived back at Walt's house, he felt cold all over, even as he stepped out into a night that was nearly as hot as the day that had preceded it. He wanted to get back into his car and leave, to run, to forget it all and pretend it had never happened.

Then and only then did he truly understand her.

There was still one light on downstairs, but Ben moved as quietly as he could as he found the spare key under the mat and let himself inside. It was an old, creaky house; if anyone was sleeping, he didn't want to disturb them. But as he carefully pushed the door closed behind him, he could hear both of their voices coming from the kitchen. Something in the sound of them made him hesitate. The tone was hushed but heated. They were fighting.