Work Text:
The crisp paper was just the right texture under the soft pencil tip, and each scratch and line that flew across the page contributed to the masterpiece unfolding.
His mind’s vision took shape before him, the x’s of the tread, scuffed sole, the aglet of the lace slightly flattened, and the bow lopsided and coming undone.
The side of his hand was smudged grey with graphite as the vision grew more and more clear.
His chest hitched as Elle’s breath caught his ear, tickling his neck, the hairs standing on end for reasons beyond his understanding.
“Is that a potato?”