She touched a wet fingertip to the thin paper, watching as it turned translucent, and then dried into a smudge of pencil kohl. Her drawings were always perfect - lines and curves from identical from life to page – years of practice had taught her to draw what you see. But this place, the heat - the man whose breath was caressing her neck – had caused her to unfurl like a fern growing in fast forward, spilling things she never knew existed inside of her into her sketchbook. Her drawings were caricatures of the ancient Spanish architecture, romanticised and warped into a reflection of her feelings. It wasn't perfect, it was messy.
She liked it. It was growth. He had made her fearless. It was him, she mused.
The afternoon sun was waning, and he felt a twinge when realised light was fading and they would have to leave their tree at the base of the hill below the church. He could watch her draw all day, her perfect lines turning into sprawling curves and becoming a twisted, melancholic, ethereal depiction of the ancient structure. The tiny crease between her brows, her lips between her teeth – even in frustrated reverie, she was as beautiful as the buildings she drew.