Then he extended his right hand across the blanket.
Not toward me exactly.
Into the space between us.
I stared at it.
“What?” I asked.
“You said I liked your hands.”
My heart began to pound.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
I stood and approached slowly.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
He nodded.
I placed my hand beneath his.
Noah turned mine over, examining my palm. His fingertips traced the calluses along the base of my fingers, the scar near my thumb, the rough skin along my knuckles.
The touch was cautious and impersonal.
My body remembered it as intimacy.
I kept still enough to hurt.
“Work hands,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Mine too?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his right hand resting over mine. There were healing cuts along his fingers, grime finally scrubbed from beneath the nails.
“Do they match?”
The question almost stopped my heart.
“In some ways.”
He slid his palm against mine.
Our fingers aligned.
For one suspended moment, he held my hand.
Not as he had before.
Not with recognition.
