It's less risky than she thinks, and that's the signal that he should put a stop to this right now. It should sicken him. It, along with his revulsion with himself, brings him closer than everything before. There is no deeper desire she could express for him. Hate feels like love as his hand slides up to her neck. His head drops, mouth agape in the crook of her shoulder as he fuck her recklessly.

Behind closed eyes, instead of nothing, he sees it all. Wheat blonde hair, the flash of a revolver, Joan's throat flexing with shame the first time she peeled her shirt off for him. Hap comes with a guttural cry, buried inside her, his careful grasp of her throat the only tether to the man he wants to be himself.