Our fingers slide over each other, lacing together intricately - two hands clasped in perfect compatibility, down to the way even his fingertips brush between my knuckles.
His palm is rough and leathery, his fingers broader than mine. When the muscles contract in a loving squeeze, I'm aware of how delicate my hand is, and how much I trust him to cradle it.
His thumb traces the contours of my wrist. I shiver.
We do not move. We do not speak. We barely breathe. And yet, between us, there is something beyond words, a bond expressed in hands and found in hearts.
This is love.
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