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Meiko, Kaito realizes, has gentle hands.
The thought first occurs to him when he passes by Miku's room one evening, only to come to a halt when he sees her inside, straightening the blankets around Miku's sleeping form. She doesn't notice his presence, and the look on her face is so open and her movements so slow and tender that he would be foolish to interrupt her. Watching the pair of them together, the two people in his life who are more important to him than anyone else, fills him with contentment and pride and an inexplicable sense of longing.
The ache makes his chest throb, and he slips away, her kind expression lingering in his mind.
Perhaps it's unexpected for a woman as headstrong and bold and brilliant as Meiko, who fears almost nothing and has a spirit that burns like fire, to have a touch that is all at once so warm, so soft, so nurturing, but now that he knows it to be true he can't help but seek out the feel of her hands. He notices when she rubs his back as he returns to wakefulness in the mornings. He notices when she runs her hands through his hair to kiss him. He notices when she straightens his scarf on his way out the door, and when her hand searches for his beneath the blankets each night.
It's fascinating. He can't quite describe it in words, but he thinks her touch suits her. She's loud, and far more impulsive than he is, and he would hardly describe her as calm or reserved even on a good day. But kind, generous, whole-hearted, and so very earnest and genuine she can't help but come off as a little awkward at times—that's who Meiko has always been, at her core. He can match her touch to her person in his head, and it just feels right.
Even then, Kaito doesn't quite realize how reliant on it he's grown until he comes home from a long day of work one evening. It's late—outside, the sky is already dark. The door creaks open, and an uncomfortable sense of guilt settles in the pit of his stomach as he creeps into the entryway.
They were supposed to go out for dinner tonight.
But it's far too late for that, now. Thanks to him, they've missed their reservation entirely.
With almost deliberate slowness, he unwinds his scarf from around his neck and props his bag against the wall, which slides down to meet the floor with a soft thump. In a bid for time, he bends down to adjust it. Then, reluctantly, he at last makes for the kitchen.
Meiko is waiting for him inside. Behind her, the table has been set for dinner—she must have prepared it herself, once he didn't show in time to make their date. The guilt bubbles up and spills over into his chest.
At the slow sound of his footsteps, she turns towards him and her entire face lights up and a broad smile spreads upon her lips, as though his presence alone has made her day, even though he's done nothing but ruin their plans and create more work for her. She pivots on her heel and moves towards him, and he looks up to meet her eyes, and—
And it's all too much—the glow of the lights, the smell of the food, the sudden sympathetic expression that overtakes her face. He crumples, folding in on himself, his supervisor's words echoing faintly in his head, the many tasks he's left yet unattended swirling in the back of his mind, and without meaning to he finds himself enveloped in her arms, repeating sorry, that he's sorry, and she's shushing him, running her hand up and down his arms—so patient, so kind, so warm.
She is too good, for him.
And yet, she loves him all the same—Meiko with her kind eyes and her strong heart and her ever-gentle hands. He doesn't quite know why, but he's grateful anyway, and with a little bit of prodding from Miku—or maybe a lot, at least according to her—he eventually comes to a realization.
He wants to marry her.
He wants to tie their lives inseparably together. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her, and have the all at once incredible and terrifying privilege of waking up by her side in the morning and holding her at night. He wants to admire her at her best, and support her through her worst, and appreciate her for everything that she is.
So maybe it's the hopeless romantic in him, but he wants all of that, and more.
...She really does have such lovely hands, he thinks. (He wonders what they would look like with a ring around her finger.)
Even though he's made his decision, he still ends up sitting on it for months, because he's Kaito and he struggles to voice his thoughts sometimes and she really is too good for him. With Miku's badgering, though, he eventually finds it in himself to gather his resolve, but when the big night finally comes he's a nervous wreck anyway.
And Meiko, of course, takes notice. When she cups a concerned hand against his cheek, he seizes the chance to reach up and keep her there.
He inhales. The air is cold. His breath leaves him in small puffs.
Finally, he looks down to meet her eyes, which are tinged faintly red under the streetlight, and his hand crawls up her wrist so that he can interlace his fingers with hers.
He takes a moment just to appreciate her touch—the familiar texture of her skin and the delicate shape of her fingers and the body heat that spills off of her even now. The moment passes, and he steps back, pulling her hand with him, extending her arm out to bridge the new distance between them. Then he sinks down to one knee, and if he's a little unsteady from nerves neither of them mention it.
Slowly, her eyes widen in realization. He feels the heat from his face, contrasting against the bitter winter air, and he fumbles his speech, nearly biting the inside of his cheek with a tongue rendered numb and lips gone stiff from fear. But still he infuses his voice with every ounce of confidence and certainty and the very, very real love he has for her that he can muster, trying to convey to her exactly how much she means to him and how very precious and incredible and beloved she is. And when he asks will you marry me, she folds her hands in his—tender, warm, gentle—and says yes.