He kisses with his eyes closed. He always has. Nothing else, just that, as if the seeing would make the other senses weaker. Feeling a woman's lips, smelling a woman's hair. He knows just from the touch of their lips that she's what he thought she is. She doesn't kiss like a hooker. She kisses like a girl.

It's one of the better ones he's ever had, and when he pulls away, his eyes are soft and blank with thought, roaming over her not to take her in, but because it isn't the world around him that he is focused on.

"And what would I have to do to convince you to do that again?" he asks, knowing he shouldn't. He isn't relationship material. He's barely friendship material. He's the kind of material that should, by all rights, be locked in a cage at this very minute.