Van catches you staring again. She doesn’t say anything at first, just lets out a soft huff of amusement as she rests her chin in her palm, her fingers tapping idly against the bar top. You should be paying attention to whatever story she’s telling, but you’re not—because her hands are right there, wrapped around her glass, her silver rings glinting under the dim light, and it’s driving you insane.

“You gonna say something, or just keep making eyes at my hands?” she finally teases, smirking as she flexes her fingers just to mess with you.

You flush, tearing your gaze away only to be met with her knowing grin. “I—”

“Mm-hm.” Van shifts in her seat, and then one of those hands—those stupid, perfect hands—is curling around your thigh under the table, her thumb stroking just beneath the hem of your dress. “You wanna hold ’em?” She waggles her fingers in your face, amused.

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your pulse is hammering. “Shut up.”

She laughs, but then she actually does take your hand in hers—threading her fingers through yours, the cool metal of her rings pressing against your skin. It’s stupid how much it affects you, how warm you feel just from this. She could be smug about it, but instead, she just squeezes your hand, rubbing her thumb across your knuckles.

“You’re real cute when you get all flustered, y’know that?”

You scowl, but it’s weak. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Exactly how much you love this—how much you love her.