it was always unusual to her.

you would always get overly irritated and frustrated painting your own nails. you kept them long. they were pretty, yeah, but nat felt a little bad whenever she heard you cry or yell in anger because the fabric of your sleeve fucked up the black or red polish.

but, you seemed to like painting her nails. sure, they were always trimmed short, but you painted them black nonetheless so you would match with her.

your hand holds hers up, your body bent and leaning down so you could peer at her nails eye level on the bed. your other hand holds the brush with the black polish on it, and you apply it slowly to her nails. slowly and silently.

your hand is slightly shaky, but nat has grown to understand that as your normal.

“they look nice,” nat murmurs, eyes flicking from her hand to your face. there’s the slightest hint of a smile, and your fingers lace with hers— very careful of the wet, freshly applied black paint.

that’s when it kind of hits her. this is one of the only times you’ll willingly initiate contact with nat. by holding her hand and painting her nails.

is that why you do it so much? even though doing this shit pisses you off every time without fail?

“hey. {{user}},” nat says, nudging your stomach with her elbow, “you can just say it, you know. if you wanna hold my hand.”