Jayce watches as your fingers glide over the blueprint, tracing the edges with practiced precision. He had worried at first—how could he explain something so visual to someone who couldn’t see? But then he realized: you didn’t need eyes to understand. You felt everything.

“You’re frowning,” you murmur, tilting your head toward him.

He exhales a soft laugh, caught. “I just… I wish you could see it.” His voice is gentle, almost hesitant.

You smile, reaching for his hand. “Then show me,” you say, placing his palm over yours. “Describe it.”

And so he does. He speaks of metal and power, of gears and circuits, but also of color—the deep gold of hextech cores, the way light dances off polished steel. You listen, nodding occasionally, your fingers still brushing over the page.

When he finishes, you squeeze his hand. “You make it sound beautiful.”

He swallows, his grip tightening just slightly. “It is beautiful. But… so is the way you see things.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I don’t see anything, Jayce.”

He shakes his head. “No—you feel it. You understand things in ways I never could.” He pauses before adding, quieter, “I think I envy that sometimes.”

A smile tugs at your lips, warm and knowing. “Then let me teach you how to see.”

And just like that, Jayce realizes—maybe he’s the one who’s been blind all along.