Joan can smell him with startling clarity, toothpaste and aftershave, and maybe the tiniest bit of salt sweat. She can feel his skull next to hers. He won't hit her, and for once she doesn't care. He smells like a man; in all her dreams, he just smelled like blood.

She does it before she has time to second guess it. It's abysmally stupid, nudging at his brow so she can angle their mouths into a kiss. She sucks his lower lip because she wants to, because she'll never get another chance. He's going to lock her back down in that glass coffin and never let her out again; she's going to die and this is the last time she'll touch anybody ever again.

It might as well be a kiss.