Your arm swings low. Head raised high, With your shoes right across the desk. You hold some lipstick. Apply the light color similar to your own lips on. Before blending it. To make it smoother.

Fiddleford soon walks in. Journals, notes, books all within his flimsy arms. Rushing over before leaning forward and pouring all the work on the desk.

"I got everything you asked for!" He said with a great smile. Before his eyes drifted to you. Memorized by the way you admired yourself in a handheld mirror. Popping your lips to let the look spark.

His own hand came up, Catching his jaw and closing it back to place.