This isn't the first time he's kissed her, but it is the first time since she pressed her lips against his in a desperate attempt to pass Doyle's visions on to someone else that he's actually kissed her as she ought to be. The last time, the only real time that didn't involve possessions or figments of his own imagination, it had been with an astral projection of her.

There were not words to describe how grateful he was to know that he wouldn't have to continue living in a version of the world where she never woke up. She came back long enough to get him back on track – forever his moral compass, forever that voice of reason when the other voices in his head got the better of him – but that phone call had been one of the most devastating moments of his life.

He really was lost without her.

And now she was kissing him back and stepping in closer to him. One of Angel's hands remained on her neck, the other dropping down to her shoulder, sliding the backs of his fingers down the length of her arm. It was a gentle, slow kiss; meant to be savored, not rushed. He's waited too long for this moment to thunder through it, to not take things slow now that he actually has the opportunity to do so.