He ignores me and pulls my hand out from behind my back. My fist remains clenched, and with a shake of his head, Dylan unfurls each finger. His hand is warm and calloused, dwarfing mine. He cradles my hand, applying just enough pressure with the pen to avoid hurting me. A stray lock of brown hair falls across his forehead, and as he doesn’t move to push it away, I find myself itching to do it. To curl the soft strand around my finger and brush it from his warm temple, letting my fingers linger on his smooth skin.
