She drew her hand back from his initials. Propped up on her other elbow, Zelda angled herself so that she could look at him, the shadow of the grin still on her face. She was about to ask him something - probably something about the Far East, oceans away where a Fisk had never been, at least not to her knowledge - when Mr. Darrow reached out to her face to fix her hair. Her skin burned where he touched he. The grin fell.

There was some sort of disconnect between her mind and her actions. Zelda reached out her hand to rest her fingers against the cloth of Mr. Darrow's shirt. This was probably her last chance to say anything to him - for a while, at least. Who knew what he would be like when he came back from the sea? (If?) His fingers would be just as rough, no doubt, but would he be inclined to reach for her hand with them, or take her on adventures through the bowels of his ship? She doubted it. It was her last chance to say all the things she wanted to, to apologize for last time, to tell him that he had hurt her feelings.

She did none of these things. She leaned forward, caught in the bubble of their isolation and her mental dissonance, and pressed her lips to his.

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