Most days, it was her eyes: the most amazingly expressive blue eyes he had ever seen. When they sparkled with laughter above a smile which seemed to fill her face, his own heart soared with hers. And when they shone with unshed tears or - even worse, those tears escaped to spill down her cheeks - he would have moved heaven and earth to ease her pain. He could look into them and read her soul. Even when she didn't want him to. Even when she was trying so desperately to hide herself from him, he could still read the truth in their depths.

And God help him. Despite the fact she wasn't his and never could be, he loved her for that. For all of it - the laughter and the sorrow, the joy and the pain. For all that she was and all that she could be. And for everything she made him believe he might be if only his belief in himself was as strong as hers.

His entire universe, reflected in those eyes.

But some days….

Some days, it was her hands.

Standing in her lab, watching her work, her so focused on whatever she was examining that she was no longer even aware that he was there. Watching the nimble dance of her fingers over the metal and plastic, exploring and examining, twisting and bending. Her touch so gentle yet so sure, knowing just where to probe, or pull, or push, until every curve - every hidden piece and part of the thing - was fully known. And had felt the brush of her fingers, their gentle glide across its surface….

Those were the days he didn't even want to see her eyes, when he hoped she wouldn't look up. When his barriers were grown so weak he knew she must read the truth if she only looked to see.

No, some days it wasn't her eyes he longed for.

Some days, it was her hands.