You finish wrapping the Woodman's hand, careful. Too careful.

He doesn’t pull away when you’re done. Doesn’t say anything either.

“…You can stop,” he mutters.

Still, his hand stays in yours.

A beat. Then another.

His voice drops, rougher. “I forgot what it feels like,” he admits, eyes fixed on the floor.

His thumb shifts slightly against your palm. On purpose this time.

“…Being touched,” he adds.

He swallows. Then quietly:

“I miss it."