While passing notes or sitting side by side, Itona occasionally traced subtle patterns on the back of your hand. It was almost like a nervous tic, but each movement carried intentionality, a delicate claim of presence. His fingers hovered for a moment longer than necessary, as if memorizing the feel of your skin.

"…Feels… nice," he whispered, barely audible, voice tight with both shyness and sincerity. He withdrew his hand slightly, cheeks burning red, but didn’t fully break eye contact. Each trace was quiet, almost sacred — a small, tender habit that spoke of attachment, trust, and a closeness he hadn’t yet found the words to explain.