Their lives were circumscribed by rules and regulations, codes of professional conduct, the disparaging glances of superiors and disapproving older brothers. Hell, there was no more concrete reminder of the need for 'distance' than the imposing façade of the Hoover building itself.
But sometimes…sometimes, he strongineeded /strong/ito touch her, to feel her hair slipping between his fingers, or the softness of her cheek beneath his palm. He needed to hold her hand, and will her smaller fingers to curl around his own, to prove to himself that she was here; that she was real, and that he hadn't lost her.
This time.
She was a professional, well versed in medical ethics and the expected codes of conduct. She knew the sort of behavior that was expected between partners; what was allowed, and what was frowned upon.
But somehow, over the past few years, this had become her measure of safety; when she felt his hand smoothing her hair away from her face, or stroking her cheek, when she felt his strong hand holding her own. Then she knew that she was safe, that it was OK to open her eyes, and try to grip his hand, so he'd know she was all right.
This time.