Sometimes he held her hand, leading her as they walked through a forest, down a hill, over a ridge. Sometimes it was a more urgent tug, a pulling towards safety, or towards danger -- towards somewhere he wanted to see, or somewhere he needed to be; somewhere he needed her to be, with him.
Sometimes he didn't touch her. Usually he ran ahead (running towards, running away, curious, impatient, in a hurry), but then he would turn back to take her hand.
Sometimes he grabbed her, or lifted her, or swung her out of the way. Sometimes he carried her, when she needed to be carried.
Sometimes his touch was comfort, and sometimes it was worry; always it was friendship, and security: the feel of his hand in hers, the steady grip, his palm against her flesh, his fingers clasped tightly around her own, not letting go, never letting go, never leaving her behind.