L had nearly cried, as well. The only reason he hadn't was because it was Hemingway, and in Hemingway, someone always died. Just like in war. But there were also triumphs, glorious ones, and Blythe's last smile ranked highly on his list so far.
"Really? You read it twice?" he asked, glad that her enjoyment of the story seemed to run so deeply. He loved how she, like himself, had the tendency to take things literally. He'd thought that way, as well, but a late night staring at ceiling tiles had brought him the double realization. He was elated, that it was something he could share with Blythe, and that she had compared the epiphany to "blindfolds lifting."
Ah, love... the way she said it, so frankly yet with such compassion, was like pins and needles. "Yes. Yes, the desire to be with another during war... is truly fierce." There was a tremendous need to affirm life when there was death (or hell) on all sides. L found himself reaching for Blythe's hand, but he stopped a few inches short of it and let his fingers curl in on themselves.