She sighed, tugging on her curls. "You don't... Don't be sorry. We just need to figure it out. Right? We can't just not talk about it."
She sighed, turning away from him as she looked down at the floor. Her feet dangled over the side of the table and her hands were in fists in her lap. "You can't... you can't do that to me. Act like my concerns are exhausting," she said quietly. "They may very well be, but... God. I mean, I'm scared you're going to die, Francis. I'm terrified that one day, two men in uniforms are going to come to our apartment door and tell me that you were killed. That's something we need to talk about, even if you don't want to. I can't..." She opened her hands helplessly, still not looking at him. "I can't lose you and I can't feel alone in this."
"But I don't know that, Francis. I don't. You're a soldier in these raids. Getting shot at is basically your job. I'm sorry, but I can't just say that 'I'm not going to lose you.'"
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, not look up at him. "Don't be sorry. We just... we need to figure this out."
She sighed, pulling her legs up to her chest. "Okay. So, your job is involved with being shot at. Let's discuss that."
