"Fine," she sighed warily. "I still don't see the point though."
Their hands touched. She turned away- abruptly becoming fascinated with a sprinkle of fallen leaves. The atmosphere softened considerably, and he...couldn't help but wonder why this moment- this joining of hands- seemed so new and fresh each time they did it...Even the air felt as though it were brushing against him- gliding, swirling-no, crashing against him in a way it hadn't before...
But...why her?
"Don't ask me," she replied disinterested, falling back on the ground with closed eyes at his questioning. "I don't get why I feel this way about you either!" And she snapped at him when he smugly asked: what 'way'?
Her hand was warm. ("What? Did you think my hand was cold as the dead?" She rolled her eyes at him). It was because of how she was- or rather, who she was, that he couldn't completely get a grip on the fact that...the warmth inside her wasn't gritty; the warmth from her hand wasn't hard-edged or cruel. That knowledge always surprised him.
"Oh, be quiet," she laughed, when he joked about her essence, joked that she was so grounded her heart must be on some rocks, and he'd have to find it someday. "And where is your heart anyway; if mines on stone?" ("Yes, I want a real answer!" she added hastily, glaring at his humorous grin.)
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Quietly, he blew his breath to the sky...
He knew she'd understand.
I feel like such a softy writing this sort of story. It's a nice feeling. I've quite fallen in love with it.