It happens without thinking.
You reach for her hand the same way you always used to—easy, familiar, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a split second, nothing changes.
Then she reacts.
Maysilee takes your hand immediately—too quickly for it to be conscious. Instinct, not choice. Her fingers close around yours like she’s been trained to grab, not hold.
The pressure is firm.
Then tighter.
Not painful at first—but it builds, her grip locking in like she’s bracing for something, like she’s anchoring herself instead of connecting with you.
Your breath catches slightly.
She notices.
Of course she does.
Her eyes flick down instantly, tracking the tension, the way her fingers have curled too hard around yours. There’s a sharp shift in her expression—not panic, but recognition. Correction.
She lets go.
Fast.
Like the contact burned.
“…sorry.”
It comes out low, clipped—automatic, almost reflexive. Not defensive. Not dismissive.
Just… immediate.
Like she already knows she did something wrong.
Her hand pulls back slightly, hovering awkwardly between you now, fingers half-curled like they don’t know what to do without something to hold.
For a second, she doesn’t look at you.
Doesn’t move.
You shake your head gently.
“It’s okay.”
Before she can retreat any further, you reach out again.
Slower this time.
Deliberate.
You take her hand back into yours—not grabbing, not pulling—just guiding. Your fingers slip between hers, adjusting the angle, easing the tension out of her grip before it can build again.
“Like this,” you murmur.
Soft. Patient.
Her hand goes still in yours. Completely still. Like she’s afraid to move it wrong again.
Her gaze drops to where your hands are joined, watching closely—studying it the same way she would anything unfamiliar. Anything she needs to relearn.
There’s hesitation there.
A pause where she almost pulls away again—
but doesn’t.
Instead, her fingers shift.
Careful.
Uncertain.
She loosens her grip, just slightly at first, like she’s testing the difference. Then more, following the pressure of your hand, mirroring it in small adjustments.
It’s clumsy.
Not in a way that’s obvious—but in the tiny delays, the overcorrections, the way she focuses too hard on getting it right.
Her thumb brushes lightly against your hand—tentative, unsure if it belongs there.
“…like this?” she asks, quieter now.
Not looking up.
You nod, even though she might not see it.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Another pause.
She exhales slowly, like something in her settles just a fraction.
But her eyes stay on your hands.
Watching.
Memorizing.
“…I don’t remember how to do this,” she admits.
There’s no frustration in it.
No anger.
Just something softer—something closer to confusion, like she’s aware of the gap between who she was and who she is now, and doesn’t know how to bridge it.
Your grip shifts slightly—not tighter, just steadier.
You offer her a small smile.
“Good thing I do.”
That finally pulls her gaze up.
Just for a second.
She studies your face like she’s trying to understand how you can say that so easily—how you can act like this is something that can be taught again, like it wasn’t lost completely.
Like it’s still there.
Waiting.
Her expression doesn’t fully soften.
Not yet.
But something in her shoulders loosens.
Something in her hand stays.
Her fingers settle into yours again—more naturally this time, less forced, less sharp.
Still careful. Still learning.
But not pulling away. And this time— she doesn’t let go.