The moonlight caught in her eyes, and it almost broke him.
Neither of them did vulnerable well. It was messy, and it was awkward, and they both preferred to keep it in a small box they could lock up and shove in the back of the closet. As carefully constructed as it was, though, the box was made of papier-mâché and scotch tape, and it wasn't worth a damn.
She fought with words, and he spoke in bullets.
It was fading now - the moonlight, her eyes. He couldn't harness the moon to make it stop its passage, or carry her with the light. He couldn't leave her there alone, though.
He stepped into the shadows.