The kiss is soft, barely there, but it makes something catch in Ellie's throat, tight and hurting. It's been longer than she wants to say since someone's touched her like that. There's nothing she can say.

Instead she briefly touches his cheek with her fingertips, a gentle brush before she takes the instrument up in her arms, lays it across her lap, and gets very comfortable.

She plays for them both.

Chords first, imperfect, over and over as she finds the right ones. Experiments with placement of her fingers. Leans into the familiar sting of softened calluses building back up. She hungers for this, thinks of all the love left cold, preserved in these sounds.

None of the songs from home will do. But she's been to many places in her time, and it's one of those that she strums for, capturing the melody in her voice, rather than in the strings. It's soft, scratchy at the edges, a touch rusted from disuse.

But it warms up to something softer than the rest of her, and she sings for him.