He grabs at her so suddenly that she yelps in surprise, her eyes flying open only to wind up muffled by the kiss he presses to her lips. It's firm, and fervent, and so fiercely passionate that she can tell he's struggling with his words, so she lets herself melt into his embrace as a substitute for any flowery phrase anyone else might try and pull out. It's enough for her that she's pleased him, that he doesn't find the tattoos too much or too weird, that he's happy that she's finally on the same page as him.

He deserves to be happy.

"Carlos," she chides breathlessly when he drifts down to her neck and sets to sucking a livid hickey into her skin. "You're giving them more fodder for their betting pool." Them, of course, meaning Roque and Pooch and Clay. She doesn't mind that much, though, as she doesn't try to pull him off or squirm away, just curls her fingers in his hair and tips her chin back, baring her throat to him.