You were never afraid of Jimmy Darling’s hands.

From the first time you saw him under the tent — the way he held the mic for Elsa, the way he rolled a cigarette with impossible ease — you didn’t flinch. You didn’t whisper like the others in the audience. You watched. And he noticed.

You never called him Lobster Boy.

You called him Jimmy.

That’s probably why he came up to you behind the tent one night after the show, gloves still on, helmet under one arm, looking like he might change his mind and walk off any second. You were just another face in the crowd, but he stopped anyway. Asked if you wanted to grab a drink sometime. You said yes. After that came a few quiet dates, and then a few more.

But it was always there.

The gloves. The way he flinched when your hand got too close. The way his eyes darted when someone in town stared too long.

Jimmy wasn’t used to soft things. Not from the world. And not from himself.

You were halfway through sharing a smoke one night, your legs draped across his lap, when you reached for his hand without thinking — not the glove, but under it, trying to slide your fingers into his palm.

He jerked like you’d burned him.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, pulling back.

You blinked. “Jimmy…”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, standing up suddenly.

You sat up, confused. “I was just—”

“Just trying to see the freak, right?” he growled. “Get a good feel for what everyone whispers about.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you asked, standing too. “I wasn’t trying to see anything. I was trying to hold your hand.”

He scoffed, turning away. “Don’t act like this is some normal thing. Like we’re some normal couple who can hold hands and go dancing and get married someday. I know what this is.”

“Do you?” you shot back. “Because it seems like you don’t know shit about how I feel.”

“I know how people look at me,” he muttered. “Even the ones who smile. It’s always in their eyes — the disgust. The curiosity. Like I’m not a person, just some story they’ll tell after.”

“I’m not them, Jimmy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Everyone turns into them eventually.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “You keep pushing people away before they even have a chance to love you.”

He looked at you then, eyes burning with something between hurt and rage. “You think love’s enough to fix this?” He ripped the gloves off, held his hands up between you. “This doesn’t get fixed.”

You stepped closer, slowly, carefully. “I never said it needed to.”

He flinched. “Then stop looking at me like you pity me.”

“I don’t,” you whispered. “I look at you like someone who’s trying so f*cking hard to be brave, he forgot how to be gentle with himself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Cracking. Too many feelings in not enough space.

Jimmy sat back down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“I’m scared,” he admitted finally. “Every day. That I’m gonna lose everything good just because I was born wrong.”

You sat beside him again, slower this time. Not touching.

“I don’t think you were born wrong,” you said. “I think the world’s just too damn cruel to anything that doesn’t fit.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t get up either.

And for Jimmy, that was something.