He almost thinks to let her do it, indulge in a little bit of that strange intimacy of being unarmed by a loved one, but he does it himself, fingers working nimbly on the opposing buckle. It comes away easy, and he sets it down on the bedside table with a soft sound.

"Hmm," he muses. "I think you know my soul."

Maybe not much of his life, perhaps, but he doesn't need to be an Assassin around the woman he loves. He likes to have a person to escape into, to bury his nose into and simply be with.