The noise he makes is soft and startled with a ragged edge of sheer yearning; this is so clearly a man who hasn't been kissed in years, outside of dreams and nightmares and lives he didn't truly live.

His heart pounds against the hilt, and his shirt is torn enough to see hints of the scars tangled thickly across it. A hand rises, hovers - he feels like he should pull away, he desperately doesn't want to, he's aching so beautifully - and ultimately, it falls again to rest, feather-light, at Jedao's hip.