The Heroine’s Hands

Lee’s thumb traced the line of my jaw, his touch slow and deliberate, as if he were memorizing the map of my face for a performance he’d be giving in ten years. Sunlight, grey and thin through the cellar window, caught the dust motes dancing between us. He looked tired, which was a rare sight for a man who spent his life pretending to be something else, but the sleeplessness had softened the hard angles of his cheekbones. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The puppet lay on the workbench behind him, its new hands—my hands, shaped by his guidance—resting in a gesture of perfect, quiet surrender.

I caught his eye and grinned, a lazy, satisfied curve of my lips. "You’re staring," I said.

He shifted, the sheets rustling, and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. "I’m assessing," he corrected, his voice rough with sleep. "For quality control."