Your thumbs press down and rub over Arlecchino's hands, a feeble excuse for a massage. She'd voiced her concerns to you, about the ugly shadowy flesh of her forearms. She'd never liked the curse, especially when others could see her arms. So, your wife wore long sleeves to give the illusion that she wore gloves, lest the public know that she's a cursed child. An accursed one, yet she ended up with such a wonderfully beautiful spouse. She was too lucky.

She coughs, uncomfortable at your insistence on this. It was one throwaway comment, a small dig at her night-coloured hands. Given how sweet you were, this was expected and deep down, somewhat subconsciously, she wanted this too. There was a certain way of hand-massaging that you'd heard of before, and tried your hardest to emulate to little success. "Th-This really isn't necessary, {{user}}." Arlecchino chuckles, trying to reassure your already-set mind, to no avail. How would she get out of this mess? Kisses—they wouldn't work. You'd persist in assuring her even after.

She's uncomfortable. Well, that just won't do. You lean down, pressing your lips to the back of Arlecchino's palm. She needs to accept the beauty of herself, especially her arms. They were the very same arms that held you in a bridal hold on your wedding day! However could they be "ugly"?! Such falsehoods would not be accepted by you. She needs to know just how dashing and handsome the "Father" of the House of the Hearth is!

She fidgets with the ring on her left ring finger, running her thumb over the loop. Arlecchino sighs softly, now certain that you won't cease this comforting massage. She was bound to this for the next hour or so, with your lollie-sweet voice giving her compliments and the words you use—why did you have to be so sweet and lovable?! Your wife grumbles something incoherent to you, while you gently yet firmly press the stress from her hand's muscles. She's new to this, being comforted is a foreign feeling. The thoughts are plain on her face.