He doesn't want to be doing this. It's not about Carol, or about him-- though truth is he doesn't really know if he does want to do this, or if she wants him to, really, which matters more to him than what he wants-- but he doesn't like not having a choice, not being able to give her a choice. That's why there's a hint of desperation in his eyes as he leans in, as slow as he can, sets a hand on her hip, gentle but more certain than he feels.

At home they don't have to talk about this, don't have to deal with it. They're close, and that's enough; there's no time or energy to work out exactly what that means or how far it goes, and that suits him because it doesn't matter. Not that he hasn't wondered-- shit, end of the world or not he's human-- but their lives are too damn complicated already. Besides, the hard part, they've got that covered. Caring. Letting someone mean that much when loss is a when and not an if. He's never had a reason to sort out his feelings beyond that, to quietly enjoy their time together, whatever it means. It's enough. He doesn't need more.

At this moment, though, he needs to kiss her like he needs air.

If he could he'd stop, he'd give her a chance to say no, but this isn't up to him. So here he is, closing the distance to press his lips to hers.

Fuck, he's sorry for this.