When she kisses him—a quick, light peck on the lips—he doesn't kiss her back.

There is no standing-on-tiptoes or tugging on clothing to get closer (no, they are essentially the same height), nor are there any sparks or fireworks alighting their vision. There is nothing particularly sweet like that.

When she kisses him, he doesn't really know what to do.

Because people don't kiss—people don't love monsters like him.

She watches him for a moment, silent, then smiles a sorry (she says things to him now without speaking, signing—and somehow it frightens him) and he dismisses it with a, Nothing to be sorry about.

Because he doesn't want her to be sorry about him—about them.

(He's had enough of being sorry.)

She cries like it's her first time.

And maybe it is her first time; something like this, with someone like him.

He's hurting her, probably, and it's not like he really wants to (no, not anymore). He's never been a gentle soul, not for as long as he can remember. But he's tried to be gentle with Nina at least, and he suppresses a chuckle because, really, he shouldn't be thinking about a little girl like her when he's doing something like this. (His hands are still so rough and she's tugging on his hair.)

It's hard to kiss her.

Well, technically not. Because he kisses her everywhere: on the neck, shoulder, chest—but he stops himself when their lips come close.

Those kinds of kisses speak volumes without speaking.

For her, the name Barry still haunts. (She doesn't say—doesn't have to—but there was no kissing in her previous occupation). And him—well, actions have always meant more than words to him.

And he doesn't want it to be said.

At least, not now.

She stops, hands easing from his scalp and he looks at her. She's focused, gaze firm, and she mouths something to him.

He closes his eyes.

(When he leaves, she doesn't cry like it's the last time.)

A/N:

I wasn't going to publish this at first but hey, why not. Well, thanks for reading!