It's endearing, really, and there's no other word she can think of to describe it. His hands are small, tiny actually (for a man's), and it's endearing how he tangles those short fingers with hers, keeping them entwined while his breathing evens out next to her.
She's only just met him, but this the first time someone's held her hand like this, as they lay sleeping side to side, chest to back. The back of his hand is discolored, skin replacing skin, and those slight fingers had lingered as they traced the inside of her thigh (showing her exactly where it had come from, this piece of him).
And this is what she wants to remember of him. Not the way his breath reeks of soju when he shows up in the middle of the night, bleary eyed and unreasonable; not the way he avoids her questions (and her kisses) when she gets too close; not the way he ignores her calls, and messages, and feelings.
(Because god forbid they actually like each other.)
But she doesn't know anything about that yet.
All she knows is that this guy doesn't walk out the next morning (leaving behind cold sheets and a cold heart) and that his lips are smooth against the curve of her shoulder. So this is what she wants to hold onto (for as long as she possibly can).