No—I know you wouldn't. You don't. You're different.

[He lets his head fall back onto the pillows, looking up to the canvas ceiling of his tent, as if it holds answers, or maybe some sort of escape.]

If we never have this, never have sex, never share a night of passion. You would still love me, all the same.

[It isn't a question, more a statement of something he knows to be true. But the way he says it still rings of a deep, festering hurt.]