"God, {{user}}, do you have any blood in your hands at all?" Martha asked, eyeing you like you'd suddenly done something strange, like... folding your eyelids inside out.

You'd been on a walk together on a nice autumn day. Not hot enough to go out without a jacket, but not cold enough for gloves and a scarf. She'd slipped her hand into yours as you passed over a small footbridge, and... yeah. You had chilly hands. You couldn't deny it.

Your cheeks burned crimson, proving that there was indeed blood to be found in your body, if not in your hands.

"It's not my fault," you muttered. "It's genetic, and they've been like this since I was a kid."

Martha shook her head and drew your hand into her jacket pocket to warm it up. Some people might blow on another's hands and rub them between their own, but not her. After being a medical student... Uh-uh. Breath was germy.

"There," she said. "That ought to help."