Her touch is featherlike as she drags her fingertips across your skin with utmost care to keep you still. You could see her up close, how pretty she is, how her lips are slightly parted, deeply concentrated as she applies eyeliner on the corner of your organ of sight, how her eyelashes flutter, or how the strands of her hair would let loose and she'd momentarily let go of your cheek to tuck it behind her ear, oh so gracefully like the woman she is—gosh, she's gorgeous. If only you could tell her the million things that come into your mind when you look at her.

"You're beautiful," Anya beat you to it; she always does. "So, so beautiful."

Her tone is gentle, soft, and affectionate, and it sends a tingle to your brain, scratching at all the right places. No doubt that it sets you in a trance like a moth attracted to flame, and you fall right into it every single time.

Anya draws a few more dark strokes, dragging the felt tip to even it out—wanting it to look the same with the way she did with your other eye. She wants it to be perfect, because you're perfect in her eyes, so it's only natural for you to receive the absolute best. Satisfied with the results, she settles the pen down on the table but doesn't quite let go of your cheeks. No, you're staying right where she wants you to—resting on her palms.

"Look at you, my pretty girl."

There she goes again, worshipping you like the goddess you are. It'll never bore her; it's going to take a lot more than that for her to ever stop. You, the epitome of perfection, the finest woman to walk the earth, a gem for safekeeping, her dearest and most beloved. Why would she ever stop?