Jesus, Vee. Her composure breaks, and Frank's own brows pitch in answer, fists twisting at his sides, open and closed, fighting not to just reach for her now. That's not his place, not when he's the one hurting her, not when he doesn't know if he can make it better.

(She needs him to.)

His head drops in a nod instead, shamed. Yeah, he gets it.

What she's asking, though -- it's not forever. It's not giving up. Really, she's not asking him to stop at all; she's just asking him to put whatever he is on hold, for however many more weeks or months they're stuck in this rat trap together, and try being what she needs. If he could keep her from needing him at all, he would, but they're past that now and he knows it, can see it in her face as much as he feels it in his own bones. His eyes stay low and distant, considering. Can he be better?

"There's certain people--" he starts, and falters again, struggling to put this into words at all, let alone make it not sound like a cop-out. It isn't, for him. It's a compromise, a new set of rules he's offering, because even if he wants to make a change, rules are the only way the world makes sense anymore. "Folks come through that fountain that ought to be dead and buried already. And there's a couple of 'em, if they show up here, I-- I need 'em gone. I owe that, to people who needed me as much as you."

But that's it. No one else. His eyes lift to her, for permission.