Frank drew Ronan in. He knew the shape and sense of what was happening, but like the first few times with Prokopenko, it chewed at him, sank claws into his lungs that ripped guilt into him. Was he stopping? No, and that was the worst, most unforgivable part.

He drew Ronan in, but he was also moving. A steady shuffle to the bed, because they both knew where this was going. They did, didn't they?

Frank's thumb found Ronan's mouth again, tracing the lower lip, dragging it down. He pushed Ronan gently down onto the bed but kept his thumb on his mouth like it belonged there.