Frank's fingers clench a little harder around his mug, throat tight.

He'd meant it when he said that she should stay away from him. He had. He'd meant it then and he'd mean it now if he could bring himself to say it again. He isn't ever really going to forget the way she shook, the bone-deep, terrified look in her eyes after she sat behind the counter and listened to him murder two men right in this very diner. (He'd brought her here as bait. It had worked, but it still makes him an asshole and he knows it.)

But for all that, he's the one who came in here today just because he saw her wandering in the street. So who is he to talk?

"I'm not," his voice starts out embarrassingly hoarse, and he stops to swallow so it comes back. "I'm not good for you. Ma'am." He licks his lips, and looks at her. Trying to convey what he means because words aren't really his strength. She's not a goddamn idiot, he knows: not good isn't some startling new information. "Or anyone. I'm just, not."

He can't even tell if he wants her to tell him to pack it in and get the hell out of her face, or if he wants her to want him to stay. Both seem terrible in different ways. (Both seem like they'd be for the best, in others.)