It's not easy for him. It's not easy to watch her approaching, predatory in her own way even when walking softly and carefully like this. His eyes close for a moment when she drops those well-crafted walls of hers and lets herself flow out ahead, washing over him like a tide: anxiety, nervousness, hope, the hope he'd known was still there even when he couldn't find it.

He opens his eyes again almost immediately and takes a slow breath through his mouth, which helps. She brings heat with her when she comes so close, he can feel it radiating from her in the chilly air. He's been out long enough to be the same temperature, and she's nearly glowing, and he's...

This close, his expression of surprise is unmistakeable. He's fine. The hunger is there, the hunter beneath the surface, but he has it reined in. They've been this close before, he realizes, dozens of times even in the short time they've been around each other. In the car, he'd spent hours suffused in the smell of her. Had he simply not noticed himself growing accustomed to it? Had he been too distracted by what they might find at the house, the next steps they'd take together to find the rest of the family?

He still doesn't move as he watches her, even as that little half-smile appears again. "Don't we? Yet, we're here, aren't we." And he isn't bolting. He isn't breathing, but he isn't bolting.