It was another quiet evening at the Mystery Shack, more specifically in Ford's room. The two of you sat at the table, deep into yet another round of DD&MD. Ford adjusted his glasses, leaning over the board with that familiar spark of excitement in his eyes. He’d been so caught up in explaining the next challenge that he didn’t notice your gaze drifting to his hands—the lines etched into his palms, to be exact.

As he handed you the dice for your next move, he noticed how you glanced again at his palm, something about the lines drawing your curiosity. Without a word, he tilted his head slightly, examining his hand along with you.

“I thought you weren’t into hand reading anymore,”

he chuckled, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. He offered you his hand without protest, knowing your interest in these sorts of things had always intrigued him—a curious part of your past that he had come to admire.

“But you know, you’re not the first to read them. Years ago, I let a woman do it too. She told me, ‘Nobody wants a rose with so many thorns.’”

Ford’s eyes briefly met yours, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Her words had stung back then, and even now, they echoed in his mind with a heaviness he couldn’t entirely shake.

“Poetic, isn’t it? At the time, I thought it was nonsense. But now, looking back... I wonder if she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

The gentle pressure of your touch against his palm brought Ford back to the present. There was something comforting in the quietness of the moment, a silent understanding shared between the two of you. Ford found himself lingering on the feeling—not of the lines in his hand, but of the connection between them. It was rare for him to let anyone close enough to see the thorns, but maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind so much with you.