No Gloves

She catches him watching her try to rub feeling back into her fingers and she flushes self-consciously.

“Where are your gloves?” he wants to know.

On the hands of a child living in a trash bag on the corner near the train station. “I don’t know,” she lies, laughing it off, hoping he’ll think she’s just forgetful.

His lips quirk. “Here,” he says, and reaches for her hands.

“Oh–” she starts, because her hands are one of those places, and she hates to have them touched. It’s too much, too intimate, and she doesn’t need that, not from him, not yet.

They’re still too new for her to give away all of her secrets.

“Let me warm you up,” he says, and his hands are around hers, and his skin is so hot.

She gasps softly.

He cups his hands around hers and draws them closer to him, draws her closer to him, and as they stand in her lobby and wait for the elevator, he rubs warmth and feeling back into her frozen fingers, and he never takes his eyes off of hers.

It’s too much. It’s way too much too soon and she can’t breathe. His lips curve. He smiles like he knows.

The elevator bell goes off and the doors open, but before she can pull away, he brings her hands to his mouth and he brushes a slow, warm kiss along her knuckles.

Her knees feel weak.

He releases her hands but he doesn’t stop smiling.

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