He didn't stay.
Not that she expected him to.
An hour had barely passed, and then he was up and pulling his clothes back on. Daphne watched him, unwilling to say anything. The hour afterwards, it had been almost more pleasant than the sex. The sex had been amazing though, even if it was over far to soon. After, she had just lain against his side, listening as he hummed some tune, fingers playing over her spine like a violin's bridge.
But something must have irked him, something that made him move from the bed. He was pulling his socks and shoes back on, sitting on the edge of the bed. Daphen quickly slid from the sheets, found his shirt, and helped him into it. Fingers that had wanted nothing more than to tear the buttons away now fastened them with the utmost care. And if her fingers trailed over his chest, well he did have a very nice chest.
It wasn't overly muscular, but it was firm.
Hans grabbed her fingers before she could pull them away. He enjoyed those fingers, so agile and dexterous. He squeezed them, tighter than needed. Her eyes flicked up to his, her mouth open in a gasp. "You don't have to leave, you could stay."
Well what could he say to that? That leaving himself here, without a pistol or some form of protection that wasn't a naked woman, was a mere invitation for some idealistic French boy to shoot him? He could have told her that he rarely stayed in his lover's beds, that he only stayed the night when there was copious amounts of alcohol and far too soft beds. He could have given her any excuse, but he didn't. He kissed the tips of those fingers and turned on his heel.
He only paused to pick up one of the buttons that were rolling on the floor, pocketing his little trophy.
