November 1926, Birmingham

"My little darling let me see yer hands,"

That was how it started, on a walk with keen-eyed Arthur, he noticed you started stuffing your hands up your sleeves around mid October to escape the nip in the air, he presumed you'd just forgotten to look out your gloves, rather than jump straight to assuming you didn't have any, giving you the benefit of the doubt.

He'd cradled your hands so carefully, so nicely, as if they were made of porcelain, pressing his lips, (but mostly moustache,) to your chill-bitten fingertips.

~

"Tsk tsk tsk, Jack Frost'll bite your fingers right off at this rate my angel," he'd grumbled, you'd been washing your hands under cold water, the hot tap in your kitchen taking far too long to heat up as per.

He'd clapped his hands over yours as you dried them, rubbing them dry for you before holding them within his warm, dry palms for a few moments as he gently chastised you, meaning no real consequences, he simply wanted what was best for you.

~

"Now now, no arguing, little thing, do as yer old man tells ya, eh?"

He'd gifted you a new pair when you told him you had no gloves, soft, creamy brown leather with sheepskin inlay, maybe the finest gloves you'd ever seen.

"Pop them on for old Arthur eh? Let me see if they fit," he said, holding his hand out expectantly for yours so he could inspect them.