Melancholy.
Very few times had he found Grell crying. Very few times had he noticed her makeup had been smudged slightly.
She claimed she was strong. She would not be labelled as a weak woman.
But she was wrong.
Somebody would break her, or it'd be one insult too many that would send her spiralling into a fit of anger, and soon after, a crying spell.
William used the same tactic every time. When he'd find her curled up on the couch, shaking with tears, he'd drop everything he'd be doing and comfort her.
A sad Grell was an unstable Grell, and he was the only one who would calm her down.
His hand would move up to caress her back, his other hand wiping away blackened tears.
Words spilled from his mouth that seemed very uncharacteristic for the strict reaper.
He would tell her she was beautiful, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.
The tears would cease and she would press her lips to his, her own hands running up his neck to wrap around his shoulder blades, dragging him down closer.
Things would escalate from there, and Grell would be truly convinced, even if he said it rarely, he found her beautiful.