Everything about Mr. Greengrass was gentle and Rosalie might've growled in frustration were she not utterly determined to enjoy this for what it was. (An escape. Freedom from the grief still ever present in her chest.) She leaned towards him when she felt his hands on her hips, her chest lightly brushing his jacket. Rosalie took the opportunity to delicately move her hand from his cheek to the nape of his neck. She wouldn't tangle her hands in his hair the way she typically enjoyed to while kissing, wouldn't press him further than he wished to go, even if not doing so felt wrong in a way she couldn't quite name.

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