Hands.

All I can focus on is the fingers softly stroking the back of my hand, round and round in a little circle that calms my convulsive pulse. If I dared to allow my eyesight to linger on you for just a second, I’d be welcomed by a small smile playing on your lips.

The heat between our closed fingers begins to burn my palm, and I can feel the flush reaching my face as I stare out into the open scenery around us, trying to focus on anything but the figure beside me.

Your grasp tightens as everything darkens.