"Do you mind if we hold hands?" Eleanor asked as we walked toward the large building.
I extended my right hand. She slid hers into it without breaking stride, fingers threading between mine, palm pressing warm and dry, thumb settling along the edge of my knuckle with quiet certainty.
"This is what women want," she said, voice low and steady as our arms swung gently between us. "Connection. The simple kind."
Her head reached just to the height of my shoulder. She moved with unhurried precision, bare feet pressing into the white sand with each deliberate step, linen pants brushing softly against her thighs. The world seemed to slow around her rhythm, sun glaring off the pale ground and casting sharp shadows beneath every tent flap.
