His arms dove back into her hair, holding her in place as he shot up to push his mouth against hers, and oh, there was that old, dark mess of ink she’d half-expected and half-forgotten: The Mark. Distantly, she recognised that if this had happened five years ago, she would have felt an urge to acknowledge it, to offer pathos and deeply symbolic words of forgiveness. Now, however, she had only one single thought: She was, fundamentally, too old for this nonsense. She’d grown up. The only symbolism she still required was that simple, wonderful line of fuck this.