#friend asks

Corbeau

“Can you hold this for me a minute?”

Corbeau barely looked up as he reached out, already expecting something tangible—keys, documents, anything that made sense.

Instead, you slid your hand into his.

He stopped.

His fingers remained half-curled, tension flickering through his hand before it closed around yours. He looked down at the point of contact, then up at you, brow furrowing in unmistakable irritation.

“…This isn’t an object,” he said flatly.

You smiled at him.

There was a beat—long enough that you wondered if he was going to pull away out of principle alone.

Then he sighed, sharp and quiet, the sound of a man resigning himself to something he absolutely did not plan for.

“Fine,” Corbeau muttered.

He adjusted his grip, deliberate and firm, as if humoring you on his own terms. His thumb settled against the side of your hand, unmoving at first, his expression carefully neutral as he looked forward again.

“Next time,” he added dryly, “try asking directly.”

Despite the words, his hand didn’t loosen.

Gradually—so subtly you might have missed it—his posture eased. The tension in his shoulders lessened. His thumb brushed your knuckles once, almost absentmindedly.

After a moment, he glanced down again, lips quirking just slightly.

“…Is this long enough for your ‘minute’?” he asked.

When you didn’t answer right away, he huffed quietly.

“I thought so.”

And when you finally tried to pull your hand back, he tightened his grip just enough to stop you.

“Careful,” Corbeau murmured, tone lighter now. “You did ask me to hold it.”

You got the distinct impression that he would be very precise about when he considered the task complete.

==========

Grisham

The lunch rush at Café Nouveau Truck No. 1 had settled into a steady rhythm—steam curling into the air, cups clinking, Griselle calling orders with sharp efficiency while Grisham handled the counter with practiced calm.

“Thank you—have a good afternoon,” he said warmly, passing over a drink with a small nod.

You lingered nearby, waiting while he finished up. When there was a brief lull, you stepped closer.

“Hey,” you said softly, “can you hold this for me for a minute?”

Grisham glanced over and smiled faintly, already reaching out. “Sure.” He expected… something. A cup. A receipt. Maybe your bag.

Instead, you slipped your hand into his.

He blinked.

His fingers curled around yours automatically before his brain quite caught up. He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you, surprise flickering across his face.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

There was a brief pause—more thoughtful than awkward—before his grip adjusted, gentle but secure. His thumb rested lightly against the side of your hand, warm from the coffee cups.

“…Alright,” Grisham murmured, as if accepting a small, unexpected responsibility. “I’ve got it.”

Griselle noticed immediately.

She leaned against the counter, eyes narrowing with interest. “Is this a thing now?”

Grisham’s ears tinted just a little pink.

“She asked me to hold it,” he said simply.

Griselle snorted. “That’s not a thing. That’s a hand.”

Grisham shot her a look—not sharp, just warning. “Griselle.”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just saying, you’re smiling.”

He wasn’t—at least, not obviously. But the tension in his shoulders had eased, and he’d shifted closer to you without realizing it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When you gently tugged your hand back after a moment, Grisham hesitated.

“…Oh,” he said again, a little sheepish this time, loosening his grip. “Sorry. I thought you meant longer.”

Griselle grinned. “Sure you did.”

Grisham cleared his throat, still smiling faintly. “Anytime you need me to hold something,” he added, glancing at you, “just let me know.”

And somehow, despite the noise and bustle of the truck, it felt like the simplest promise in the world.

==========

Ivor

The dojo was unusually quiet.

Not empty—just calm. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, dust motes drifting lazily as Ivor finished setting equipment back in place. Gwynn stood nearby with her arms crossed, watching him with that familiar look of mild skepticism.

You stepped closer, waiting for a pause.

“Hey, Ivor,” you said casually. “Can you hold this for me for a minute?”

“Sure!” he replied instantly, already reaching out. “What is it—wait, is this another balance thing? Like that drill you showed me last week?”

Before he could finish the thought, you slipped your hand into his.

Ivor blinked.

He stared down at your joined hands, then back up at you, brow furrowing in intense concentration.

“…Am I supposed to be doing something?” he asked cautiously. “Because if this is a grip-strength exercise, I should probably—”

“Ivor,” Gwynn cut in flatly.

He looked at her. “What?”

“That’s not training.”

He looked back at your hand.

Then at yours.

Then back at Gwynn.

“Oh.”

There was a very brief moment where you could see the gears turning—slowly, valiantly—before understanding finally dawned.

“Oh!” he said again, louder this time.

His face broke into a grin so wide it was almost blinding.

“Oh—wait—this is just—” he laughed, squeezing your hand without thinking. “You just wanted to—wow, okay, yeah, that makes way more sense.”

Gwynn sighed. “Incredible.”

Ivor didn’t let go.

In fact, he stepped closer, fingers lacing with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, warm and absentminded, like he’d discovered something precious and was afraid to drop it.

“This is nice,” he said earnestly. “You should’ve said so earlier.”

“I did,” you pointed out. “I asked you to hold it.”

He gasped softly. “You did?”

Gwynn shook her head. “I’m leaving.”

“Okay!” Ivor said cheerfully, not taking his eyes off you.

Once you were alone—or at least not being actively judged—Ivor squeezed your hand again, beaming.

“Anytime,” he said happily. “Seriously. You ever need me to hold something—like, anything—I’m your guy.”

You laughed, and he laughed with you, shoulders relaxing as if something had settled into place.

And if he kept holding your hand long after your “minute” was up?

Well.

That just felt right.

==========

Urbain

Running errands with Urbain was never a quick affair.

Somehow, a simple list turned into three stops, two detours, and at least one enthusiastic conversation with a stranger who definitely did not need to know as much as Urbain was telling them.

You trailed along beside him as he walked, Rotom Phone in one hand, already mid-scroll.

“Alright,” Urbain said absently, “we’ll stop by the market first, then—ah, yes—this should only take a moment.”

You smiled to yourself. “Hey,” you said lightly, stepping closer. “Can you hold this for me for a second?”

“Of course,” Urbain replied immediately, barely glancing up as he reached out.

You slipped your hand into his.

He didn’t notice. At least—not right away.

He kept walking, fingers closing around yours automatically as he continued talking, already tugging you along with him as if this had always been the arrangement. His grip was warm, secure—confident in the way of someone who assumed you’d keep up.

You did.

For the next several minutes, Urbain dragged you gently through the street, weaving between people, stopping abruptly, then starting again without warning—all while holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh—wait, we actually need this,” he said, pivoting sharply and pulling you with him. “And I should check—no, never mind, I already did that.”

You caught his hand tightening just slightly whenever the crowd thickened, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a reflex. Still distracted. Still oblivious.

It wasn’t until he finally stopped—really stopped—that he looked down.

His gaze flicked to your joined hands. Then up to you.

There was a pause.

“…Huh,” Urbain said thoughtfully.

You raised a brow.

He smiled slowly, amusement blooming across his face as realization settled in.

“So this is what you wanted me to hold,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “You could have just said you wanted my hand.”

You shrugged. “You were busy.”

He laughed, soft and warm, and instead of letting go, he adjusted his grip—fingers lacing properly now, deliberate.

“Fair,” Urbain said. “But I don’t mind being distracted for this.”

He leaned in slightly as you resumed walking, his thumb tracing an idle circle against your hand.

“Next time,” he added lightly, “I’ll even pretend not to notice again.”

When you reached your destination and slowed, Urbain finally turned toward you, expression fond and open.

He didn’t say anything this time.

He just leaned down and kissed you—gentle, unhurried, like he’d decided this was the best part of the errand after all.

And when he pulled back, still smiling, he didn’t let go.

“Ready?” Urbain asked cheerfully. “I think we’ve got one more stop.”