When she pulled him back he came with a willingness, his hands sliding back to her waist and his lips pressing eagerly back to hers. He leaned into her and let the passion run its course, or at least as far as it could with a funeral right around the bend. He broke when she did, and his forehead stayed pressed against hers as she treated him with a smile. "One step at a time," he said softly. "For now, let's face this, and then see what happens next, okay." He kissed her forehead and disengaged with her, then turned to gather his usual attire. His armor and belt went on, then his coat, his weapons, his boots. The walk back into town was longer than he remembered, but only perhaps because of the subject.<br/><br/>He stood alongside her, close enough that one might ask questions, but not physically touching her. He listened to the eulogy, to soft lament of the people as Oliver's coffin was lowered. At one point he caught Malia's mother looking at them, her eyes full of pain and anger, and without a thought he put his hand around Malia's shoulder. It wasn't meant as a sign of defiance or offense, but instead something for her mother to realize once the grief passed and she remembered her own daughter.<i>She will be taken care of. Even if not by you.</i>He left his arm around her, unashamed of how he felt. They reviled him and spat on her; why should they not be seen together?