His cane clatters to the floor, forgotten, as he wraps her up in the kind of embrace he's longed for since he stumbled out of the woods at her side. She kisses him like they've done this a hundred times before, and he pulls her in close, responding hungrily.

If he hadn't been two-fisting glasses of wine, if every meal he's eaten hadn't been spiked with who-knows-what, he'd be more hesitant about the whole thing. But he's someplace past tipsy and sexually frustrated, and while he'll be embarrassed by the instinct later, some part of him wants to prove to her just how good the future can be to them. The others she's been with here undoubtedly care for her, but he loves her in a way he'd like to believe can't be matched.

Which is to say, he's sliding a hand along her blouse without hesitation or propriety, looking for whatever fasteners are keeping her flesh from his touch.