He held her hand tightly in his, running is fingers across her knuckles. On her right finger, he noticed a small bump.
"You should hold you pencil properly," he said thumbing at the bump.
"Hm?"
"Your hand," it'd just barely begun to blossom, pink like a rose, "you have a writer's bump."
She pulled her hand away, and his fingers fell cold, "It's none of your concern."
But it was, it really was.