She likes holding his hands, having his fingers wrapped around hers like a protective cocoon. They fit snugly, just like good shoes or puzzle pieces or feet in fifth position. She has got cold hands, and when his envelop hers, it feels like that ratty knitted sweater she likes to drag out from her closet every rainy day. It was comfortable, it wasn’t too warm, it wasn’t too tight and it was just right.

His hands were an extension of his person, and she liked it that their hands tell a story. 

Like how the first time they held hands, caught in the moment as they relished in their joint victory. It was all caught on camera and she thought her face was on flames but he didn’t let go of her hand even after the moment and they got cut from the entire closing scene because she still had her hands in his. It was cold and his hands were warming hers up quite nicely so they held hands until it started getting awkward trying to work chopsticks with his left hands and they had to let go with a tiny hint of regret.

After that, it started happening more often than not. They try to ignore the sparks of static when they touch, passing it off as dry hands no matter that it was summer or that her hands were all lotioned up when it happens.

He bends his elbows for her and she tucks her hands in the crook of his arm when they walk together and it was a habit they couldn’t remember to forget when the cameras start rolling and more than often, it took a while for them to remember that they shouldn’t, at least not in public.

He likes to hold her