"Almost," he said, unable to contain the smile on his face at her question. He was pleased with himself for having managed this, and her confusion was pleasing too, in a way. It meant that she was going to be surprised by this next bit, which was what he'd been hoping for. Apparently Julian hadn't let anything slip about the gloves then (or Leonid, from the awkward run-in outside the shop), and she didn't know what to expect. (Courting her was so much nicer for the past few weeks, now that he had a few of her siblings won over to his side — if they'd gone about this properly and the Fisks had all started off at least neutral to him, he might have been really enjoying it).

"Here," he said, picking up the right glove between both hands and rolling the bottom of it up, so that the interior was visible where it would hug her forearm and wrist. There were marks in the stitching there, invisible from the outside of the glove but with enough of a texture that she'd be able to feel them when she was wearing it. Hopefully she recognized them, without him having to explain; they were all of the marks he'd drawn on her arm as they'd sat alone in the dark in his room two weeks ago.