Max really didn't want to listen to this. It hurt. He'd tried, so hard, not to let Siobhan blame herself. He'd told her, honestly, a million times that she was beautiful. He'd promised himself, more than that, that he'd be better, that he'd be more willing, more agreeable, that he'd initiate, because that was what she needed and he loved her. He loved her, so why couldn't he ever do it? It was easy, after he'd put her off and they were cuddling happily, to tell himself he would do better the next night. When the next night came, there was always some excuse. Too tired, too full, headache, indigestion, stress. "You don't need to be anything," he said. "You're perfect."
He'd tried to hint, very infrequently, that perhaps he just didn't have that high a sex drive. The idea of failing her that way, failing her as a man, as her future husband had always stung his pride too much to say it outright. He hated the thought of her blaming it all on herself, when it was him, his fault. "I -" Before he could force the words out, tell her he just wasn't interested in sex, at all, with anyone, she carried on. Talking about Higgs, of all people. So he did remember. His outrageous accusations, the ones Max had been prepared to at least try and forgive.
"I'll do better," he promised. "I can." Could he? He had to, if he wanted to keep Siobhan. If he didn't want her to walk out, right now, disgusted with him.