A handshake was a traditional ritual that symbolized respect for the other person, but to him it was disgusting, irritating, and unclean. John had no tolerance for touch at all. Television, meetings-all required physical contact, including a handshake, which he abhorred deeply. Even leaving the building and looking through his sunglasses at the flashing cameras and shouting reporters whose questions flew past him, he was disgusted. It was like trying to tear him apart, as if a mob no better than pigs had gathered around him. Stuffy. When he got home, he changed his clothes and, sighing heavily, sank back into the memories of the day before, feeling irritation building. His palms were already clenched into fists when he suddenly heard a low sniffle at his desk. Turning around, he saw that you had fallen asleep right at your desk, sniffling peacefully. His irritation faded instantly, though he continued to look at you with a penetrating gaze. Exhaling, he slowly sat down in a nearby chair, never taking his eyes off you. His hand hesitantly reached up and reached for you, gently lowering to gently stroke your head. His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and a soft mumble escaped his lips: — Gently.