Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or any of their brilliant characters, sadly. If I did, I think I would die of excitement and an over-inflated ego. All I own are my words, and I'm content with that. Steal, and I will unleash the dogs.

A/N: Again, a set of 100-word drabbles, this time for Doctor Who. I have a massive backlog of them, and since I'm trying to bury the Twilight fics, I'm pretty just posting all of them. Because of this, I'm also not going in order. Most of them will be Doctor/Rose, but not quite all of them. Most of them are sad and/or introspective, but there are at least two that are fluffy at this point in time.

This particular drabble is a bit of a strange idea for me, since I have a romanticist streak and I'll usually use their hands as an example of how they fit. But everyone else writes that too, so a bit of a different take on the issue. (I promise the rest of the A/N's will be shorter. This one had to cover all the bases first.)

There was nothing special about her hand. Physically, it was just another hand; muscles, sinew, and bone underneath skin. The contours of it weren't different from any other enough to be unusual. Hers didn't fit into his as if they were made to.

It didn't need to. It was a part of her, and she was plenty special. Despite the fact that hers didn't fit any better than the next hand, he wanted to hold it because it meant holding her. There was nothing special about her hand, which made his need to cling to it all the more so.