Mick
Just her name was a tangible caress. She rolled out of his mouth and he delighted in the soft, whispered consonants as though she was a sudden thought made flesh, a new-born Beth every time.
Beth - the annoying, teasing itch that made him screw up his nose, wondering if he would ever get her out, or if she would sit there, tickling, and driving him mad forever.
It was that look on her face when she said, 'You are not a monster'. He'd heard that over the years, in forgettable tones and tempos, like raven's wings beating against a storm. When Beth said it, it stuck despite his own objections. He didn't want to stop regretting who he had been for fear those terrible things he'd done would vanish into the closets of the past, with nothing to show as recompense.
When he looked at her Mick saw all the remnants of time and life playing around her in a maelstrom. He drowned in the initial sensations, but the closer he fought, the calmer it became; she was the eye of the storm and he wanted the very heart of her. And when he said her name, it all coalesced to four letters. He knew her, he could name her - he owned her name, that power. She hid no secrets, he could single her from a group with his eyes closed. Perhaps that should have given him protection against her; a Rumplestiltskin magic of sorts. But knowing her made her irresistable. He saw the little things nobody else did. That made her his, even if the only thing he touched was her name.