It's so different like this. Sweeney doesn't know what he's meant to be doing, insomuch that he knows what he wants to be doing and what he's supposed to be. But this activity has always been a brief precursor, and now that he's trying to wait it out, it seems almost tortuous.

He forces his hand from her head to her shoulder to try to minimize his urge to shove, the fingers of the other twisting the bedspread.

Doing his best to manage the words with some level of focus, Sweeney finds the effort requires a firm swallow to find the air for the attempt.

"Can't promise I won't fuck ya." He feels it's a confession that should be said aloud before he starts trying to implement it.