His hand is open, palm up and resting on the couch beside your leg. Not a soft hand or a beautiful one. His are rough, calloused. You’re probably the only person who knows he bites his nails.
It’s just the two of you left in the room. The movie ended a while ago. Something the girls picked. He fell asleep before it got interesting, head dropping toward your shoulder, close enough that you shiver when he exhales.
The television flashes but you trace the lines on his palm with your eyes, with a fingertip hovered above his skin.