Dark lines spread across the page, taking the shape of his body. I glance up every so often, my eyes taking snapshots of his form to transpose over the page. My eyeline traces the muscles of his thighs down to his calves. Using a tortillon, I shade in the dimples where skin ripples over his abdomen and chest. Something about knowing in the back of my mind that it’s Jack and not just another model makes me want to get this right. For it to be as lifelike as possible, I study his posture, the curve of his back, the plump definition of his chest which has gotten slightly bigger from rowing, the weight of his arms at his side, the way his fingers are loose but carry with them the secrets of the universe. With those fingers, he’s written epic poems that make me want to cry. His body tells me stories about his life—the summers spent white water rafting in the rapids behind his house in Vermont, the winters spent skiing.

Since he kissed me, I noticed a small twitch in the curve of his lips that only ebbs when I kiss him back. He’s doing that now, and the more I take in bits and pieces of him, the more his mind drifts away from me. Until he catches me staring, and he smiles that crinkly smile that made me fall in love with him.

My pencil sculpts my own version of David, Jack’s smile a focal point.

Because Jack deserves to smile all the time.

When I’m done, I sit back and can’t help but be in awe of my work. But it’s not me—it’s Jack. “What do you think?”

Relaxing his body and shifting his weight to his other leg, he stretches out before walking over. He doesn’t bother to cover his body. I swivel in my chair to meet him as he walks around the table to stand directly in front of me. My eyeline is on the part of Jack I’ve only ever had my hands around.

“You caught me smiling,” he says, trembling.

“I love it when you smile.”

Jack gazes down at me, and all the moody brooding and crinkly smiles are replaced with a hungry determination. His fingers graze the underside of my chin as he wedges his bare legs in between mine. He’s breathing heavily, his chest and stomach rising and falling into rhythm with mine, neither of us looking at my sketch.