They know each other so well. Too well, perhaps, for this.

Their hands have clasped a thousand times. She knows the slight callous on his thumb. He has traced the faint scar on her palm, the one she got when she was seven and she dropped the bottle of milk while her mum was having a lie-in.

She knows his scent, leather and soap and something else she can't quite name and has probably never seen or touched. He smells safe, to her.

Her scent is subtle, but distinctive. She smells of flowers – it makes him smile. She would be challenged to name more than three, even including the one she was named for.

Her cheek knows the softness of his jacket, her shoulders the weight of his arm. She knows his warmth – he's always warm, to her. She knows the sound of his heartbeats, although she tries not to think about that too much. It's too alien, too strange – a reminder of all the differences that lie between them – while he himself is familiar, his presence reassuring.

There's no thinking now, though. Not when he's looking at her with his strange, intent gaze. Not when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, or when his hand lingers in the sensitive place on her earlobe. Not when he leans forward to gently brush her lips with his, and all she can think about is how glad she is to be here, and now, with him.

When their lips touch, he's glad to be alive.

He pulls back, not far, a question in his eyes.

She cups his cheek. For a moment, she doesn't know him at all, as the pain that he has carried, alone, for so long shows – and then she steps towards him, standing up on her toes, pulling his head down to hers. Their lips cling together as her hands learn the shape of his head, his the softness of her hair, stroking and gentling.

Later, when there is room for breathing, she smiles her crooked smile at him. She's trying to reassure him; he looks so worried.

"This OK?" he asks anxiously.

She nods, still smiling – and he grins.

"Fantastic."