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Daphne's hands are soft.
Jimmy's hands were soft, too; just a few rough spots from holding a pencil too long and a little dry and cracked at the knuckles.
But Daphne's hands are soft all over, with close-cropped smooth nails and narrow wrists that stretch across palms to narrow fingers. Amelia can feel ever millimeter of those fingers as they cross her cheeks.
They're standing in Daphne's kitchen, just the two of them. She'd responded to Daphne's call instantly, getting in the car and driving the half hour to the little slate-blue house on the corner.
She'd taken the suitcase she keeps by the door and tucked it in her trunk. It's been there since they moved in, and various incarnations have stood by the doors of each of her houses since the Winchesters and Castiel, just in case she has to leave suddenly. She thinks this is a better use for it anyway. It's been years since demons or vampires or hellhounds have appeared at their door and she supposes they've forgotten about her. She hopes they've forgotten about Claire, as well.
So now the bag sits in her trunk in the car outside, a possibility and a promise all at once. She can leave tonight, or stay the weekend; she can even stay longer, since she's never used any vacation time. There's no one here to know her, not as the woman with the missing husband and the wild daughter or the history of break-ins and assaults or the woman who someone once saw pull an eight-inch knife from her glove compartment.
Here in this town she's just another anonymous face, visiting a friend.
But with Daphne it's different, she muses as their lips slide together. Daphne understands.
They've loved the same man, or the same shell, anyway. They've lost their husbands to the celestial war, been forgotten by angels and demons and hunters alike.
Daphne pulls away, smiles at her with that slow, bright spread of her lips just an inch or two from Amelia's. "Hello, Amelia."