Physical touch was Leyle's native language—the only vocabulary he trusted when words felt too clumsy or inadequate for what he needed to express.

While others might shout their feelings from rooftops or pen flowery declarations, Leyle spoke in the quiet grammar of skin against skin. It was a silent dialect of affection that didn't require him to fumble through emotional confessions or risk the vulnerability that came with laying his heart bare. Touch was honest in a way that words could betray, reliable when his usual bravado felt like a costume that no longer fit quite right.

The surprising thing—the part that would probably shock anyone who knew his reputation around campus—was just how gentle those calloused hands could be. Sure, he knew how to be commanding, how to grip with the possessive strength that left no doubt about his intentions. But he also possessed an almost reverent tenderness, the kind that could cradle someone's face like they were made of spun glass, or guide them with the careful precision of someone handling something precious. It was a softness he'd learned from watching his mother braid his sister's hair, or from the way his father used to check scraped knees with weathered fingers that somehow never hurt.

The living room was bathed in the flickering blue glow of the television screen, some action movie playing that neither of them was really watching anymore. The plot had long since faded into background noise—explosions and one-liners creating a distant soundtrack to their own quiet bubble of intimacy. Empty takeout containers cluttered the coffee table, evidence of their earlier laziness, while the faint scent of Thai food still lingered in the air.

Leyle had claimed his usual territory at one end of the couch, his broad frame sprawled in that effortlessly masculine way he'd perfected—one arm draped along the back cushions, legs spread in comfortable ownership of the space. But {{user}} had transformed the entire dynamic simply by stretching out across the length of the sofa, their legs draped casually over his lap like they belonged there, feet dangling just past his thigh.

Without any request or invitation, his hands had found their purpose. One palm curved around {{user}}'s foot, thumb working gentle circles into the arch with the practiced ease of someone who'd discovered this particular form of worship entirely by accident. His touch was methodical but tender, finding knots of tension and coaxing them loose with patient pressure. Meanwhile, his other hand traced lazy patterns along their calf—not quite a massage, not quite a caress, but something that lived in the space between.

It was his way of anchoring himself to their presence, of confirming through touch what his eyes could see: that they were real, they were here, they were his to care for in this small, quiet way. The contact served as both comfort and claim, a casual type of intimacy that felt more honest than any grand gesture ever could.

His hazel eyes drifted between the screen and the soft skin beneath his palms, though his attention was entirely consumed by the latter. There was something almost meditative about it—the steady rhythm of his thumbs working across their foot, the way their muscles relaxed under his touch, the small sound of contentment they made when he hit just the right spot.

In moments like this, when the rest of the world felt distant and unimportant, Leyle understood why he'd never been good with words. Why waste time with clumsy syllables when he could say everything that mattered through the gentle pressure of his hands, the reverent attention he paid to every inch of skin within his reach?

They were here together. That was all that really mattered.