Hushed Willows that's nice, that's a nice sentiment

He felt her soft sigh leave her lips, as opposed to actually being able to claim that he heard it — felt it in the way her breath saturated his fur. It had been brief, for little more than a handful of seconds but it'd been enough. He felt when she moved her head, her nose moving from his shoulder to the side of his throat, her cheek flush with his shoulder. His own head moved so that his chin rested lightly against the junction between her shoulders. Her own mirror of his soft rumble caused a shiver to slither down the strong curve of his spine. His eyes closed as he reveled in her touch, in her closeness. This experience — of affection, namely — was a new sensation to him. To feel affection for another (for he would not cite the morbid admiration, fear and desire to please The Officer as affection) and be on, perhaps, the receiving end of it as well. It was a warmth. His racing heart. It was an electricity. It was small and lively flames patiently waiting to become an inferno. Whether he would survive the inferno unscathed or it would burn him he had yet to decide.

His eyes opened slowly with his perplexity when she apologized. It was muffled, spoken into the fur at his throat, but he heard it plenty clear. Unless this was an accident — and he did not think that it was if only because she did not pull away despite her apology — he didn't see the need for her to apologize. God, he didn't want her to apologize for this. Though Buchanan had always exercised caution and plenty of personal space he found that he didn't mind her invasion of his space. Hell, he liked it. “Don't-” Buchanan implored of her, his tone thick and gruff. “don't apologize for this.” Not while he was busy cherishing it, not ever, really, but at the moment he wanted to milk the affectionate touch for all it was worth in case it never occurred again and didn't want to be busy analyzing her apology for it.