"Play something," I shimmied next to him. He started strumming some open chords, his fingers expertly dancing on the fretboard. "Do you want to play together?" He adjusted his guitar on his lap and made space for me. I started plucking the strings while he fretted, and I knew I was barely making out a tune. "That isn't even a note," he chuckled, and adjusted his guitar again to play. And play, he did; and in the same, careful ebb of how he frets every chord, and how he eases from one note to another, I was reminded. Of how his fingers would sift through my hair. How his hand reaches for mine just because. How he wipes off the smirk on my face because I won a bet. How he so caresses my heart with his hands. And he need not verbalize how he feels, because his hands tell me all the time.