You’ve been curious about Flins’ hands for a while now.
Whenever you see him around, he’s never caught without two gloves covering his hands, hiding what you’ve desperately convinced yourself you need to see. But you figured the opportunity would never come, as even mentioning such a thought would frame you as—a pervert, perhaps, for having such thoughts of the man.
It was a pleasant, albeit chilly evening in Nod Krai, and you just so happened to come across said Fae on your way back home from visiting a friend. The sun was just against the horizon, right at the cusp of plunging the sky into darkness. It was only natural that you quickened your pace, unwilling to become a victim to the ways in which crime hid behind the veil of night.
It was odd how few people you passed by as you made your way home; the pathways were quiet. How easy it was to be startled by any subtle noise that met your sharpened ears that it took only an instant to pick up on footsteps nearing you from your left.
You turn to find Flins, appearing behind a building and raising his head for his eyes to find you, as well.
“It’s you.”
His expression hardly changes, but his voice gives way to surprise, and you could see why.
“It’s me,” you reply, with a smile of relief. Something about his presence always put your mind at ease, allowing your guard to lower and your heart slow down.
“I didn’t expect we’d be crossing paths this late into the night,” the Fae confesses, moving closer and stopping just two feet away from you.
You convey agreement, a sharp nod of your head as the nerves suddenly come rushing back, this time brought on by his close proximity, despite no physical contact made between you. You note his gloved hands, and look away.
“If I may ask—were you by chance heading home just now?”
“I was,” you mutter quietly.
“In that case, might I offer to walk you home?”
He doesn’t add more to his sentence, no beating around the bush, no hiding behind a rush of words with no real meaning to them. ‘Might I offer to walk you home?’ You thought you were in love.
“I’d like that,” you answer honestly, and you see something in his eyes—something you find to be relief or approval. He nods once, swift and eloquent as always, and you resume your journey home.
He’s quiet company, on the way there. Side-by-side, on an empty road, in a drowsy town that smelt of the nipping coldness in the air. You wouldn’t delude yourself into thinking the fuzzy feeling in your chest was caused by anything other than the companion walking next to you, slowing his own natural pace to match yours.
Somewhere along the way, the cold becomes too much and you try to warm your fingers by cupping them close to your mouth and breathing on them. You feel Flins’ gaze on you as he stops walking, and you look back at him questioningly. The smile he responds with is gentle and strangely tender when paired with his eyes.
“It certainly gets cold at night, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, it does—“
You’re confused for a split second when you notice him slipping his gloves off and into his pocket as he comes closer to you, and the feeling that follows is something you weren’t even sure you’d have the right words to describe as his large hands envelop your own. So gently did they cup your hands, so respectfully light and delicate and right. It just felt right. You were passive in this moment, caught between being surprised and flustered.
Once you begin to feel the warmth in your hands again, he retracts his own, locking eyes with you as he motions his head forward.
“Shall we be off, then?”
You were helpless but to continue the walk, not really present in the moment.
There were several things about this that left you stunned. The boldness of the act itself—the way in which it should’ve been something reserved for his lover, and not—not you, because you weren’t his—
“Ah, it appears we’ve made it.”
You blinked and found yourself at the doorstep to your house. An ‘oh’ was all you could think to say, and he smiled once more with something akin to fondness. But it couldn’t have been that, because really, it was the kind of expression a husband would have for his—
“Farewell then. May you rest well tonight.”
“Oh, um, thank you, sir Flins.”
He turns to leave, and you watch him a moment too long to shrug off with any excuse if he were to catch you staring, but you shake your head as you turn the key and step inside your house, which he’d—
Wait. How did he know which house was yours…?