Rough
Octavia loved his hands. They were large and rough, powerful. Worn from a lifetime of hard use, yet he could be so gentle with them. The first many times he'd touched her, she'd always shivered at the contact, enjoying it. And still to this day, she'd focus on the feeling when he touched her. When his hand held hers, palm to palm, she'd notice that her hands were slowly getting rougher too. When he'd skim his finger tips down her cheek, they were feather light.
His hands could cage her hips, being both gentle and unbreakable all at the same time. He tended her various wounds ever so carefully, threading a needle and stitching her up because she refused formal medical attention. She preferred his hands on her, rather than anyone else's.
The first wound of his that she tended to, was his hand, stabbed by her brother, she had cleaned the wound, cared for it as best she could, she knew he still bore the scar on his right hand, her fingers would trace it sometimes, when they held hands.