All the things he could choose to do with his new hand, and he touches her face. He could make a fist, interlace his fingers, grasp and punch and reach, and he chooses to touch her face.

She sniffles, wipes a hand over her eyes, shakes her head. She can't tell him how she's dreamed of feeling his fingertips tracing all over her body, following her clan markings, her scars, her skin. She's getting ahead of herself again, and she knows it. She takes a breath, lets it go, nuzzling into his new palm. It doesn't smell like him, yet.

She shakes her head again, smiling. She leans in to steal a few gentle kisses.