When he wakes, it's to pitch black and the sound of someone crying. It's Hannah. The warm weight of her shakes into his side. He squeezes her close, and kisses her on a damp cheek. “I know this wasn't what you wanted to show me,” he whispers, “but you were right. It's quite the experience, but it's just one night. We'll get it sorted out in the morning.” For some reason, that only makes her cry harder. He holds her in the dark, pressing gentle kisses to the top of her head, until she stops shaking and her breathing slows. Hannah has always been the more emotional of the two of them, the one so easily moved to tears. The first time Mullen saw her, she was crying. She was twelve, he was thirteen. She'd been new to the city, crying for what she'd left behind, and he'd watched in fascination. Somehow, there was no shame to her tears, the way there would have been to his. She'd cried openly and publicly as if that were the way everyone did it. And then he'd got to know her better, and found she cried all the time, but the tears were balanced by a joyfulness like nothing he'd ever witnessed.
