On ripple three, he slides his pinkie beneath mine. By seven, most of our fingers are woven together, tangled in the lush grass. It’s silly, really. No, actually, it’s bullshit. It’s complete and utter bullshit that he’s able to make me melt with nothing more than a mere touch. His hand should not have so much control over me. Tracing fingers should not be tugging on my heartstrings. But gentleness will be my undoing. There is an intimacy in being reached for. His thumb strokes mine. The feeling is comfort incarnate, tangible tranquility.
