The clean, crisp smell of untouched paper, edge to edge with endless possibility, pulls at me. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, pulsating, brimming with kinetic energy as the tip of my pencil grazes the surface of the page. Romantic sweeps around the top of his head marry the hard, sharp lines of his jawline. I don’t really need him here because I see his face every time I close my eyes, but having him right in front of me, blue eyes all longing and brooding, forehead full of frown lines, I see him more clearly. The freckle beneath his right eye, the one I kiss when we’re lounging lazily in bed, his small ears and ball of his nose, the way the muscles of his face tense when he’s lost in thought and relax when he feels like he can let his guard down.

When we’re in public, I feel like he never breathes, but here, now, alone without anyone to happen upon us, he seems at ease. Peaceful.

A lone tear drops onto the page, and I wipe it away, but my hands are coated in pencil dust, and it smears across the paper, giving Jack’s portrait a darkness I didn’t intend. Yet it works. I draw bolts of lightning spreading out from his irises.

When I’m done, I twirl the pad around and show him, keeping my arm outstretched across the table.

“You did this?”

“Something quick, nothing crazy,” I say.

“He looks so confident. Strong. This is what I look like?” his voice is soft.

“To me,” I say. “That’s how I see you.”

His fingers move toward mine, resting atop them. “I like the way you see me.” He licks his lips and wipes his wet eyes. When he clears his throat, which is kinds of mucusy, he says, “I’d love to see more of your drawings.”

I give him permission to flip through my sketchbook, and this time, I look away.

“I didn’t realize my boyfriend was so talented; it’s sexy.”

I make the mistake of sneaking a peek at the page he’s on, and it’s one from my figure drawing class of a middle-aged woman who modeled for us a few weeks back.

“Eh, I’m not the best at life drawings. My professor says I need to work on limbs and proportions.”

“Are you kidding?” he gasps. “These are perfect. They look so real. The lines in the musculature, the way her back curves to show her posture, the creases in the skinfolds. Chase, your professor is batshit!”