It was half past midnight when Leon banged his fist against your front door, too drunk to realize just how loud he was being. He was a mess—knuckles bloodied and scraped, a small gash on his cheekbone, a couple spots that are most definitely set to bruise in the morning. A bar fight. You sit him down on your couch, dabbing blood and dirt off his injuries. Leon watches you work, the way your touch is gentle, steady. “Y’know,” he says, voice slurred, “never noticed how pretty your hands are.”