Her hands are smaller than he expected.
He supposes he should have seen that coming, since she always did say his hands were bigger than she thought, but something about it still surprises him.
Their fingertips don’t line up and her palm fits snugly within his when she presses her left hand to his right.
"See?" she says, triumphant, without removing her hand. "I told you. You have big hands."
"No I don’t," Jude says. "You have small hands."
She frowns then, as if seriously considering a way to test which of them is right.
But when Jude shifts his hand against hers slightly, she seems to forget all about it, and smiles at him again, gentler this time.
It’s not just that her hands are small. They’re soft, too, her skin smooth and pale against his. Even the calluses on her palms are somehow pleasant to the touch.
He traces his fingertips down the backs of long, graceful fingers to nails trimmed to the perfect length, long enough not to look chopped off but short enough not to be a hindrance.
Of course, they’re strong hands, too; he can feel the power and surety of her grip, and he has no doubt these hands can kill.
But even despite that — or perhaps because of that — there’s something beautiful about them,
beautiful about the way these fingers that can so easily crush can also glide so gently across his skin.
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