Wash smiles. "Wŏ ài nĭ," he murmurs in her ear before gathering the plates and cups, easing his way over to the sink without his cane.

It doesn't take long for the water to warm. Plates first, scrubbing off the crumbs; then the first plastic cup. Something sticks to the back of his left hand as he's rinsing it, and Wash rubs it absently to brush it away.

Except the faint, gentle pressure, like fingertips ghosting across his knuckles, doesn't stop.

And nothing's there when he glances down.

Wash freezes.