“You do not want to be a noble person?" She held her thumb and index finger close together. "A little bit?"He shook his head. "I've gt nothing against noble people, I've just noticed they rarely live past forty.""Neither do gangsters.""True," he said, "but we eat in better restaurants."(Live By Night - Dennis Lehane)”

“Do you really like Quincy or are you just saying that?" I asked.Dylan held up his index finger and finished swallowing his toast. He looked alarmed by my question. "Quincy is fine. Why would I mind Quincy?""I don't know. I mean, don't you have a preference as to where we live?"Dylan shook his head. "Not really. As long as I'm living with you, I could care less. I'd live in a closet with you for Christ's sake.”

“We're just people Jo he said quietly. Yeah I suppose. People with fangs who drink blood live a long time and apparently do crafts. She shook her head.”

“She shouldn’t have been beautiful—she was too forward, too freckled, too thin. Still… Oh, to hell with it all. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. He reached out and took her hand, drawing her to him. She drifted near, until she was close enough to kiss. Close enough for him to see the green of her eyes, widening as he turned her hand over, palm up.“There’s something I’ve wanted to do since the first moment I saw you,” he said. It came out close to a whisper.“Oh?” He could feel the puff of breath from that word against his nose.“Don’t even think of arguing.”She shook her head. Her lips opened, an impossible, inviting fraction.He set the fork in the palm of her hand and closed his fingers tightly around hers. “I want you to eat,” he said.”

“She lowered her head until it was at his level. He stroked the line of her jaw, and then pressed his forehead against her hard snout and held her as tightly as he could, her scales sharp against his fingers. Hot tears began to slide down his cheeks.'Why do you cry?' she asked.'Because... I'm lucky enough to be bonded with you.''Little one.”

“Do you need someone to talk to?" she said gently. "Oh. Thank you. No, no, I'm fine." He touched his face – he'd been crying harder than he'd realized. "You sure? You don't look fine." "No, really. I've just . . . I've just had a very intense emotional experience." He held out one of his iPod headphones, as if that would explain it. "On here." "You're crying about music?" The woman looked at him as if he were some kind of pervert. "Well," said Duncan. "I'm not crying about it. I'm not sure that's the right preposition." She shook her head and walked off.”