He’s learned to read using only one hand. 

Before, he’d be very meticulous. He would hold the book upright with both hands, making sure he was only grasping at the edges of the pages. He’d never open the book all the way for fear of leaving marks and creases at the spine. The very thought of folding the pages to mark where he’d last read was horrifying and nauseating for him. He always has a bookmark, or at least a card with him just in case. 

Things are a bit different now. 

He holds his precious book with much less care. Using only his right hand, he’d spread the books as far as it could go with his thumb and pinky finger, while his other fingers supported the entire thing. If he needed to turn a page, he would put in down on the table and haphazardly flick through to the next. 

His other hand was holding yours. 

You started to notice. The first time he did this, you were in the corner of a random coffee shop. You took a seat beside him and set up your laptop. While reading your own materials for school, you felt him scoot closer to grab your right hand with his left. He laced his fingers through yours, followed by a gentle squeeze. You looked up at him and found him looking at you too, smiling. He turned to his book, struggled a bit to open it, and began to read. 

You tried to keep your emotions at bay, but you couldn’t deny that your heart beat sped up. His hand was warm against your cool ones. His long fingers perfectly aligned with the spaces between yours. His hand wasn’t too big that it would dwarf your considerably smaller one. They fit just right. You made a mental note of that while your heart did somersaults in your chest. 

You tried to withdraw your hand from his grasp but once you did, his grip got tighter. 

“What about your book? Won’t you have a hard time reading?” You asked

“No, it’s fine.” He said monotonously, giving your hand one more squeeze.

This went on for the weekends you spent in the cafe. He’d take your hand almost immediately, giving you occasional squeezes. Sometimes he’d loosen his grip just to play with your fingers. He would absentmindedly trace little patterns on your palm. His hand never left yours. 

One day you gather the courage to ask,

“What changed?” 

He looks at you, confused, his round framed glasses slipping past the bridge of his nose. The book closes on his finger, and he holds it there to temporarily mark where he stopped. 

“What do you mean?” He asks back

You lift your intertwined hands from the couch and settle them on the table, next to the book he was reading. 

“I think your book misses both of your hands.” you say as you shake your hand that was holding his. You notice the wear on the book’s edges, some parts of the cover already creased, especially by the spine. 

He chuckles. 

“You want to know why I used to hold them like this?” He lets go of you momentarily to imitate his past self trying to hold his book delicately by the fingertips. You giggle at his cuteness. 

“It’s not because they’re fragile.” He puts his book down again and takes your hand. 

You gasp. It was exactly what you thought. Can he read your mind? You always thought he has silently regarded his books as fragile little treasures, afraid that handling them poorly would cause them to break and eventually lose their luster. It made you respect him more knowing that he makes an effort to care for things that are special to him, even if they were inanimate. 

“Yes, my books are important to me.” He pauses to look at you.

“And I like holding things that are precious to me.”

As he says this, his grip on your hand tightens. His normally small smile grows into a big grin. His eyes look at you lovingly, hoping you’d get his point. 

“Oh.” is all you manage to say. You almost tear up at his statement. 

“I figured since I have two hands, I can hold two things at the same time. And I don’t intend on letting go.”

He takes his other hand and cups your hand in both of his. He rubs tiny circles into the back of your hand as he stares at them. He quickly brings your hand up to his lips, gives it a quick peck, and places it back on your lap.

You blink rapidly, unable to comprehend what had just happened. You hear him sigh and he turns back to his book, turning the pages to where he stopped. He shakes his head for some reason.

“I’m not usually this cheesy. Please don’t get used to it.” He says matter-of-factly, followed by a shy smile. You notice a hint of pink creeping up his cheeks. 

You laugh at his statement and by instinct, snake one of your arms around his. Your hand travels down to where it was before, in his own. You rest your clasped hands between the two of you. You go back to your own work.

“I won’t. But this I can get used to.” you grip his hand tight and release. He does the same in response.