Katherine Plumber was not the type of woman to moon over her beau's appearance. No, that kind of silliness was something that her younger sisters often indulged in, but never Katherine.
Though Jack was quite good-looking, she did not think overly much about the chiseled jaw that she dashed her fingertips across in the early morning while he slept.
Nor his warm eyes, which could flash with anger and frustration just as easily as they could soften adoringly when he smiled at her.
His lips, too, were lovely - lovely to kiss, lovely when they quirked up in his infuriatingly smug grin.
She certainly did not think much about his physical form, though it was certainly fit from the physical labor of his youth.
No, she did not focus on any of these things.
But ... well, if someone pressed her for comment, she might confess her love for Jack's hands. She loved the way they wielded paintbrush and pencil with the same ease that they once hefted newspapers.
Katherine adored the rough feel of his rough fingertips against her skin. Most of all, though, she cherished the feeling of his hands holding hers. It was gentle; as if too tight a grip might shatter her. Desperately, sometimes, as if he still did not quite believe she was real and present and his.
It was an ordinary thing, holding Jack's hand, but it would never stop being extraordinary for her.