He lets her hands go, his own tracing the lines of her arms and shoulders until they reach her neck again. He touches her face with a gentle finger and touches her throat with his other hand.

There are kisses and warmth and he keeps his hands on her as much as he can. He touches her and lets her know he's there and every so often, he moves, signing the word again.

Who knows what kind of love it is, Who knows if they can put a term to it beyond 'love'? It doesn't matter. Words, they aren't for him, not in the way that they are for other people.