I study it longer than I mean to.
My own face, through her hands.
Through her eyes.
It feels intimate in a way I wasn’t expecting. More than words would’ve been. Because this isn’t how I present myself to the world. This is how she sees me when I’m not actively trying to be anything at all.
I glance up at her.
She’s watching me closely now, waiting—but not anxious. Just present. Like she already knows what she’s drawn and only wants to see if I understand it too.
My hand shifts slightly against her side, holding her there with me.
I look back down at the sketch.
As she sees me.
I swallow once.
“Is that really how you see me?” I ask quietly, because I don’t trust anything louder.
My eyes drop back to the sketch.
To myself.
To what she’s made of me when I’m not trying to be anything at all.
“Fuck,” I murmur, softer now, almost to myself. Not frustration. Not disbelief. Something closer to surrender. “I look… happy.”
I finally look at her.
Really look.
Still on me. Still close. Pencil smudges faint on her fingers, sketchpad resting between us like she’s offering me proof of something I didn’t know I needed.
“You did that,” I say, quieter. More certain. “You made me look like that.”
I realize, with a clarity that doesn’t feel dramatic or overwhelming—just true—that I don’t want to go back to being the version of me that doesn’t exist in her eyes.
Not if this is what she sees.
Not if this is what I look like when I’m with her.
I glance down once more at the sketch, then back at her, and something settles in me for good this time.
“Keep it,” I say finally, voice low but steady. “All of it. Every sketch you want to make of me… you keep them.”
My fingers tighten slightly at her side.
“And I’ll keep giving you things worth drawing.”
I lean in, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead, lingering there a moment longer than I intend to.
When I pull back, I don’t move away.
Don’t break the moment.
Just stay there with her.
