It was Halloween. The amber light of a late October afternoon slanted through the window. The air smelled of the cheap, waxy chocolate from the bowl by the door, the crisp scent of decaying leaves from the open window, and the singular, essential fragrance of you the faint, sweet trace of the chai latte you’d finished an hour ago.

You were a vision, his girlfriend, a creature of autumn and artistry. The fawn costume was already on, a soft, leotard romper the color of toasted caramel. But it was your face that held him captive. You’d already painted it, transforming yourself into something straight out of a storybook. A delicate speckling of brown freckles danced across your nose and cheeks, and a soft, wet-nosed effect made your philtrum look dewy and real. Around your eyes, a sweep of earthy brown shadow made them look larger, more luminous, a woodland sprite who had stepped right out of a sun-dappled thicket.

And now, you were trying to work the same magic on him.

“Hold still, Clark,” you murmured, your brow furrowed in concentration. The small, damp paintbrush tickled its way across his cheekbone. “If you mess up my spots, I’m going to be so annoyed.”

He tried. God, he tried. But holding still was a Herculean task when you were this close, when your breath feathered against his skin, when the entire universe was the press of your thighs against his and the intense, lovely focus in your fawn-painted eyes. His hands, which had instinctively settled on your hips, flexed gently, feeling the plush texture of your costume beneath his palms.

“I am holding still,” he lied, his voice a low rumble.

“You are not. You’re vibrating.” You leaned back, just an inch, to assess your work. “It’s like trying to paint a… a very handsome, very distracted washing machine.”

A chuckle escaped him, deep and warm. This was his reality. He was so, so gone for you. Down catastrophically bad, as the kids he heard on the subway would say. A total, absolute wrap.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. You’d used a glossy, neutral lip color, and it caught the light, making his own breath hitch. The desire to kiss you was a physical ache, a magnetic pull that felt more fundamental than gravity. He wanted to smudge the careful art on your face, to feel that gloss on his own lips, to ruin the fawn and find just you underneath.

Don’t look at her mouth. Don’t think about her mouth. Think about… baseball. No, terrible. Think about… filing systems. Alphabetical. By continent. Her eyelashes are so long. How are they so long? She’s painting a woodland creature on my face and I would let her paint the entire periodic table on my forehead if it made her look at me with that much focus. I want to kiss her. I’m going to die if I don’t kiss her.

His hands slid from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer. The movement was slight, but the intention was clear.

“How much longer, baby?” he asked, the petname slipping out as naturally as breathing.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎