I only see her hands—smooth, clean fingernails; long, sculpted fingers; a mighty thumb that hints at secret strength.

They hover between us like the poised pen of a composer ready to write a new adagio.

Her touch moves with lithe agility. Fair skin catches the lamplight, so smooth and soft you could almost mistake it for porcelain.

Ringless, unencumbered by vow or token, her hands invite a story that’s written only in the air between her fingertips.

When those hands brush my cheeks, they are unmistakably gentle—a deliberate, feather-light pressure that trembles with remembered chords.

In that caress lies her unspoken truth: she is a pianist, and her hands, flawless and free, have always spoken louder than words.