He could kiss her, he thought. He could lean in and kiss her. Kiss her lips or her neck and put the demand and the command and the 'Captain' into it.

But this was Reinette. And as she looked at him, she looked at him. It was very nearly unsettling.

He was reminded, for a moment, of a time in a hotel in wartime London. He was there then, for a second, shaken from his stance now and then both times at the same time.

And then he was here.

Should he back down? Realise he made a mistake. Too heavy handed. And he didn't know how not to be. No-- no that wasn't right. He did know how not to be, but he just wasn't being. He wasn't there yet.

But he wanted to be, and that was a good sign, wasn't it?

He wanted to be, but he knew too she deserved more respect than he'd shown her in that movement. Maybe if she'd been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared. Maybe he could have used someone else as a tool, a way of bringing himself forth.

Not her, she wasn't that.

And so his head ducked down a little, and his voice spoke soft and apologetic.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have."

He faltered.

But it was worth noting: he hadn't moved back.