It was in the way Adam had no idea what he was doing that had Ronan's heart thudding quicker in his chest.
It was the way he ran his long fingers through his hair as he worked, to keep his hair out of his eyes.
It was the way his veins strained against his skin when he lifted anything heavy.
It was the way that his knuckles whitened as his hand clenched in anger into a tight fist.
It was the way his fingers framed Opal's face as he kissed her goodnight.
It was the way his hands gripped the pan he was using to cook breakfast with, his fingers grasping the handle, his knuckles standing out, even if he weren't straining.
It was the way the tendon in his wrist rose as he held his hand out for Ronan's.
It was the rough calluses at his fingertips from the hours upon hours he'd spent using them.
It was the faint scars from a shattered beer bottle that lined his left palm.
It was the prominent scar across his right wrist from a knife wielded by a man not fit to father a child.
It was the burn, long since faded, where a cigarette had been put out against the soft skin between his thumb and index finger.
It was the freckles dotting the back of his hands.
It was the reddish birthmark along the outside of his left index finger.
It was the flat nails that never needed trimming, bitten down as far as they could go.
It was the tanned skin, a shade darker than the skin of his face.
It was the feeling of home as his hands cupped Ronan's cheek.
It was the feeling of calluses, rough against Ronan's bottom lip.
It was the lines that ran across his palms, his fingers, his wrists that spelled out Home when Ronan traced them.
It was the wrinkles that made themselves known when his hands were relaxed.
It was the way he absentmindedly cracked his knuckles with his thumbs as he read over a paper he was writing for class.
It was the way he used his hands to talk, expressing his point with gestures that had Ronan missing his point entirely.
It was the way he bit the inside of his wrist to keep from laughing when Ronan made a crude joke at an inopportune time.
It was the way he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm in the morning.
It was the way his hands were bigger than both Ronan's and Opal's and yet seemed to fit perfectly anyway.
It was in all of these ways that Ronan Lynch found his love of Adam Parrish was only rivaled by his love of Adam's hands.