She watched him closely, her eyes cataloging every perceptible change since she left him in Whitechapel. Too much of him had changed, he was too gaunt, too sallow to be healthy. She doubted he slept much. She pondered him, but the decision her brain made surprised her. She crossed the room in her long strides, a part of her felt as if she was along for the ride, also interested to see if she would kiss or kill him for the amount of worry she felt on his behalf.
She committed to her decision, but not before searching his eyes, judging whether her entrance into his personal space would be seen as a threat or be welcome. Taking his nonreaction as permission, she kissed him. Forcing herself to refrain from seeking anymore, she pulled back without crossing away from him. “You aren’t well.” It wasn’t a question.
She committed to her decision, but not before searching his eyes, judging whether her entrance into his personal space would be seen as a threat or be welcome. Taking his nonreaction as permission, she kissed him. Forcing herself to refrain from seeking anymore, she pulled back without crossing away from him. “You aren’t well.” It wasn’t a question.
![[Image: Bka0H0x.jpeg]](https://i.imgur.com/Bka0H0x.jpeg)