He crossed to her in three strides that shook the floorboards, and his hand was on her cheek before she'd drawn her next breath. His palm was hot, almost feverish, and she could feel the tremor running through it, the fine vibration of something barely contained.
"Felicity." His voice was low, raw, stripped of every layer of composure he usually wore like armour. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers hard, claiming, desperate, and she felt the taste of copper and something wild and terrified on his tongue.
She fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, because after everything, after the waiting and the not-knowing, she wanted him near enough to feel his pulse hammer against her knuckles.
A sound came from her chest.
