You were lying on the couch with Ford. He was lying on his back, yours against his chest. As he scribbled in his Journal 3 with one hand, the journal against his knee, you were fiddling with the fingers on his other hand.

“One, two, three, four, five, six.” You count each finger.

He sighs. “Yes, yes. Six on each hand.” He hates talking about his deformity.

“What did you call it again?”

“Preaxial polydactyly type 3.” He grumbles.

You nod, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Preaxial polydactyly type three…”

He looks down at you. He always hates that his hands make him different, but…