He took her hand and allowed her to help him up. His legs were wobbly, could've been made from straw rather than bones, the way they felt, and he was just so weak. So much longing that was hidden just below the surface, and so much he'd simply cut from himself.

His eyes went down to her arm, where dark imprints of his fingers already began to mar her ivory skin. Another thing of hers he'd damaged since arriving, to be added to the collections of vases, books, and parakeets (just the one) he'd injured before.

He lifted her hand, and pressed his lips gently to her skin, to the bruise, pressing a kiss there. It was an entirely too intimate act for everyday, but, as always, he lived in the moment. And that moment? It felt right.