He could understand that, really, even if it would break his heart regardless. It's why sleeping with whores and strippers had been so easy, easier than trying to start something with Molotov in the real world. It just made him fucking sick sometimes that they were so screwed up, that they couldn't even be happy properly. It was really draining sometimes.

Brock kept absently touching her face, watching his fingers as he traced her cheekbone and the corner of her mouth and her hairline. He was used to not seeing her for years at a time, but this time -- this time had felt like decades, even if it wasn't even two weeks.

"I'm those things too," he said, by which he meant Molotov thought he was these things. Brock thought he was relatively intelligent and mature as hell, and also knew for a fact he would never cheat on Molotov. "Would you have slept with him?"