Beckett's not entirely certain what propelled her forward. Perhaps it was a response to a movement, a reaction to the action of his arms around her, keeping the distance between them reduced to mere inches. There's even less of it now, as his hand nudges up underneath her jaw and tilts upward to enable the kiss to deepen. There's a slow, building heat in it, one that rises hotter and faster when she slides her arms around his neck, drawing him in while she presses forward to meet him halfway.

It's needy, too, but not overwhelmingly so, because it's tentative, too, and visible in the way her mouth moves against his, the salt of her tears still lingering on her lips. It speaks without words, says what she won't be able to herself.

I'm afraid of how much I need you.

Her hands descend from the back of his neck, his shoulder, to smooth down the length of his arms and then inward. He's already undone the first few buttons of his shirt for sleeping; her fingers find where he's left off, working steadily until the rest of them give way and she can push the two identical sides of the fabric apart across the breadth of his chest.