His fingers still tested the weight of the lock of hair he held, it's softness, the life of it. His brow furrowed into concentration on her hair. It was the fascination of death with life. One who remembers life, but has no more of it.

His fingers drop the lock of hair, but a gentle index finger moves over her cheekbone with a butterfly brush. He is intent on gathering texture, warmth, the strength of the bones beneath the skin. From cheekbone to jawline, he traces, his hands always gentle. If it shocks her at anytime to have him doing this, he simply returns to last spot or thing that didn't do so.

For Mika, this felt odd. Such a mixture of emotion stirred inside her. A shyness that he wanted to so closely study her. Not someone else, her. There's a gorgeous man with his hands on her, artistic, careful, gentle hands. There's an ache at the thought of why he might be memorizing the feel of her skin and hair. It strikes her that he might be afraid he'll never be able to again.

The action is both accidently romantic, and innocently erotic. It's a lethal combination to any woman.