"No, I — I know," Molly assures him quickly, teeth pressing to her lower lip, the hand that's been in his hair moving to his jaw. "Don't worry, I wouldn't have thought you were." She can't imagine that he'd have stopped to ask where she wanted this to go if he were just assuming anything, though her heart stutters a little in her chest at the thought that, if he's felt like he had to clarify that, then he probably is thinking about where else this could be going.

For a moment, she's not sure if she's relieved by that or angry about it — not at him, but at herself, for the fact that she can't just pull herself into his lap and take this further, that it has to be a concern at all. Hell, his not trying to push her, not making assumptions, just makes her wish all the more that she could do more than kiss him. Instead, she holds off on doing even that again. The smart thing to do would be to pull away and try to get it the fuck together, but it feels too good just to be close to him. "You don't need to be sorry."

It's not like he's the one who left her irrevocably fucked up, or like it has anything to do with him that she can't get past this. That's on her, and on someone who's long since dead.