Day One: Holding Hands

Behold, the 30 Day OTP Challenge.

My friend and I decided to do this together.

She’ll be working on her OTP, and I on mine.

Good luck to both of us~ ^_^

Day One: Tuesday.

First Challenge: Holding Hands.

His blue eyes looked at her hands, which was in his own. Her left hands in his right, her palm facing up. His finger traced the different lines on her palm, studying them slowly, silently analyzing how they looked, how they felt, and how they were in his own. His thumb rolled circles in the middle of her palm, and though he couldn’t see it because of his concentration on her own hand, she smiled. She merely watched him with green eyes, studying him just as he was studying her.

Her hand was small, her fingers quite long. Rather than smooth, compared to all the other hands that belonged to the women in his past, hers had a rough edge to it. They were clearly used everyday, and he felt that almost anything had happened to those gentle, fragile hands. He could remember when she nearly burned herself with the hot water while making his coffee, the way she squeaked in shock when she nearly cut her finger while chopping some food. Those hands were most likely wounded and bruised, probably scarred if he looked much more. They were rough from the work she had done, the cleaning and cooking she did to support herself when he wasn’t quite introduced to her life yet.

He slowly flipped her hand over and ran his fingers over her flesh, a mix of cream and bisque. Matt lifted her hand and kissed it gently, earning a blush from her and a much larger smile to come to her lips. He pulled away slowly, cradling her hand in his own and soon lacing his fingers into hers.

They stayed quiet, absorbing the moment. Ari took the time to think of his own hands.

Large, masculine, definitely rough. Shivers of uncertainty ran down her spine when she thought of how much blood had spilled onto his hands. She thought of the dirt that stained them, the sweat that came from the hard work he had to do before he met her, and after he came to love her. She kept her eyes on them, studying the small wounds and bruises on his fingers that would take time to fade, the scars on his arms that gave her anxiety mixed with paranoia. What had he gone through for all this time?

“…I never noticed your hands until now,” she admitted, breaking the silence. He looked at her, indifferent, still holding her own, their fingers still laced together. “I look at them and see wounds, I see bruises, and I can’t help but think of all the blood that coated them…” her voice trembled.

His other hand lifted up to gently stroke her cheek.

“Don’t think of that.” he kissed her hand again. This time, the kiss was tender, softer, reassuring. “Don’t think of that.” he repeated. “It’s been a while since I’ve been called to work. The only thing you should worry about are my hands getting doused in olive oil.” He gave her a smile, and she sent him a tentative one back.

“Is there a possibility…?” she trailed off. He sighed.

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

He squeezed her hand lightly.

“I’ll be alright.” His smile was weary. “I’ll keep you safe.”