Denki sat on the edge of the dorm bed, fingers idly tapping against the mattress, mind only half-present. The real focus of his attention rested just a few inches away—your hands.

They were folded gently in your lap, relaxed, soft, almost impossibly delicate. He couldn’t help but stare.

There was something about them that fascinated him—something instinctive. He’d always been tactile, drawn to textures, to sensation, and yours… they were unlike anything else.

Smooth, warm, almost like baby powder mixed with sunlight, delicate but not weak.

Every time his eyes lingered on them, his heart stuttered just slightly, a spark of that familiar, electric excitement coursing through his veins.

Carefully, almost reverently, he reached forward. His fingers hovered just above yours for a heartbeat, as if the mere act of touching would shatter the delicate perfection of the moment.

When he finally did, his hands wrapped around yours gently, thumbs brushing over the backs of your palms in slow, deliberate circles.

The sensation was addictive. Every soft curve, every subtle ridge of your skin, made him almost forget how to breathe.

He squeezed lightly, just enough to hold you there, to feel the pliant warmth beneath his fingers. The softness of your skin was almost unreal—he could have stared and touched forever.

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his face closer, nostrils catching the faint scent of lotion, of you, of something uniquely yours that made him ache in a way he hadn’t expected.

Denki’s smile was shy, almost sheepish, but it couldn’t hide the intensity in his eyes.

He couldn’t stop moving his thumbs in slow, rhythmic circles, tracing the lines of your hands over and over as if memorizing every detail.

The warmth of your palms seeped into his fingers, the subtle softness vibrating under his touch, and he felt an almost dizzying appreciation for the smallest of things—the texture of your skin, the gentle weight of your hands in his, the effortless intimacy of this quiet moment.

He leaned back slightly but kept one hand holding yours, fingers intertwined lightly now. His other hand hovered just above, itching to trace more, to explore every inch, but he restrained himself, knowing he could get lost in the sensation entirely.

Denki’s golden hair fell into his eyes, a blush creeping across his cheeks, but he didn’t mind—it made him feel alive in a way that was simple, yet entirely overwhelming.

“You’re… unreal,” he murmured softly, voice low and shaky. He didn’t need an answer; it wasn’t a question.

Just the thought of your hands—the way they felt, the subtle warmth, the soft contours—made his chest thrum with excitement. Every touch was electric, every brush of your skin like a spark against his nerves.

His thumbs drifted over your knuckles now, tracing tiny circles, mapping the softness that had ensnared his full attention.

Every subtle movement, every slight bend of your fingers, every delicate line of your palm—he memorized it instinctively, grinning sheepishly to himself.

He had no need for words, no need for explanation. This—this touch, this quiet reverence—was enough.

Denki could have stayed like this forever: hands pressed together, fingers exploring, hearts beating in a private rhythm that belonged only to him.

Your hands, soft and warm, had completely captivated him, and he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.