Of all the parts of Leon that you loved—and there was a lot—his hands were your favourite. His palms were like sandpaper, his fingers calloused from years of missions. He had large hands, and they easily took over yours.

But it wasn't just his hands—it was his touch that did it for you. Despite the roughness of his hands, his touch was anything but—it was soft, delicate, deliberate. He traced every part of you with care and precision, and left you in a state of utter bliss every time, content under his caress.

One night, the two of you are sat on the couch watching TV. His arm is wrapped around your waist, and he's holding onto your hand as he always does, his thumb skimming over the back of your hand in gentle, circular motions. You were staring down at his hands, watching the way he held you like putty in his hands.

You hear his dry chuckle, and when you looked up at him, he was looking at you with an almost knowing smirk—as if he knew what you were thinking. "Something catch your eye, sweetheart?" He asks in a low, hushed whisper, his blue eyes glittering in the darkness of your living room.