He took hold of her hand and turned it over to look at her thumb, where a little sore could be seen from her picking at it nervously. She balled her hand into a fist, hiding the sore inside.
"Don't look at that," she let out squeamishly.
"Why not?"
"Because it's gross, and it's bad right now."
"It's okay. It's not gross."
Something in the way she spoke about it stirred him. Whenever he heard pain, embarrassment, or shame in her voice, he was compelled by a desire to see her healed. He found her vulnerability to be beautiful, even when it revealed what others might consider a flaw.
He used a bit of force to pry her hand open so he could see. She resisted at first, but gave in, knowing she wouldn't win the fight. Two small, partially-scabbed indentations ran parallel across the inside of her thumb. He gently grazed the tip of his own thumb over them. It was a little worse than usual.
"Why is it bad?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"I've kind of been through a lot recently," she said half-jokingly.
"Yeah. You have."
He ran his thumb over the sores again. He took his eyes off them, held her hand in his, and began to caress it.
"Want to know something?" he asked.
"What?"
"You are really beautiful."
"Oh, stop."
"I'm serious. And I don't care about your sores. I mean I care about them, but they don't repel me. They just show me a little bit about you. They remind me of things."
"Like what?"
He continued to glide his fingers up and down the length of her own.
"Like they remind me to be gentle with you. That the things I say and do affect you, and if I say or do certain things, I can hurt you. I don't want to make your sores worse. I don't want to be the one making you anxious."
Instead of getting in a little joke that would make light of what he was saying, she sat silently, just hearing him speak. She watched his hand adjust to where their palms and fingers lined up with each others', as if he wanted to compare their size.
"And they remind me of what's going on with you. Whether it's work, family, friends, whatever. They just bring those things to mind and make me think about you."
He intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her closer on the couch, still caressing her hand. She began to do the same in return.
As she considered what he'd said, all her problems came to mind. Just like he mentioned: work, a broken family, painful relationships, and things in the past she didn't like to think about, though she had more or less come to terms with them. Why would someone like him want to deal with all that? She wondered why he loved her.
"I think you love my problems," she said half in jest, though she really was trying to understand what was behind his feelings.
He pondered the comment. He was accustomed to a woman who rarely admitted fault. The problem with this wasn't so much that she wouldn't admit her faults, though. The problem was the attitude of superiority, of entitlement, of believing in her own relative perfection and demanding perfection in return.
The woman whose hand he held, though, had an aura of graceful humility about her. What a breath of fresh air. Now he was with someone he was eager to offer himself to, who could accept him in his flawed state, and who could accept the good in him as a gift to her, though she questioned whether she deserved it.
"I don't love your problems. It's not about them. It's your response to them. It's how kind and caring of a person you are in spite of the things you've been through. It doesn't hurt that we've been able to connect through some similar experiences, but in the end, that's not it. It's your heart that I love."
She took it in. They had become friends quicker than anyone she could remember. Somehow, things had just clicked for them, and they got to know the deepest parts of one another over the course of a few months. The progression from friends to more-than-friends came naturally.
She was still getting used to the way he treated her, but she knew it was sweet. As she reflected, she began to wonder if there really was something as wonderful about her heart as he seemed to believe.
He gave her a squeeze with his arm around her back. She turned toward him and rested her head just below his shoulder on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead, then on the cheek, and then on the lips.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm good."
Hopefully it's okay to post short stories, first time I've posted one on here.