It was the twitch in his hands that yearned to reach out and brush her fiery red hair out of her face. He yearned to trace her constellation of freckles across her cheeks with his gentle fingertips. He yearned her soft, fragile hands in his own calloused ones. He yearned to feel her petite body against his lanky figure in the middle of the night. He yearned to feel his cracked lips on her rosy ones.
It was the contrast that inhibited him from doing so. She was from Heaven and him from Hell. She was an open book and he built walls around his heart. She was good and he was bad. She was on the Light and he was on the Dark.
It was the contrast.