Till was precise in everything he did, and today was no different.

He was perched comfortably in your lap, his knees braced on either side of you, the faint weight of him pressing down just enough to keep you anchored in place.

You could feel the weight of him—solid, unmoving—anchoring you in place. He wasn’t rushing; Till never rushed when precision was involved.

His gaze flicked between your eyes and the steady line he was drawing, calculating each movement with the same meticulous care he gave to his sketches.

One of his hands rested lightly on your jaw, tilting your face upward toward the light, while the other moved with slow, deliberate control as he dragged the eyeliner across your skin.

From this close, you could see the small details in him others often missed: the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight crease of concentration between his brows, the faint warmth radiating from him as he leaned closer to perfect the line.

The closeness was impossible to ignore. His face hovered just inches from yours, eyes narrowing in concentration as he studied every small movement, every flicker of your gaze.

The faint scent of graphite and paper still clung to him from earlier, mingling with something softer, cleaner—something distinctly his.

You could feel the warmth of his breath when he leaned in, adjusting the angle ever so slightly to get the line just right.

He didn’t speak. Till didn’t need to.

His silence was its own kind of focus, his attention heavy and deliberate as though you were nothing but a living canvas in his hands.

The eyeliner glided smoothly, each stroke careful and symmetrical, and whenever you so much as twitched, his thumb pressed gently under your chin to keep you still.

At one point, his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and there was a quiet weight in the look—an unspoken reminder to stay exactly where you were.

The tip of the eyeliner pen traced upward in a clean, sharp wing, his movements unhurried, his touch steady enough to make you forget to breathe.

When he finally leaned back to assess his work, he didn’t move far.

His gaze lingered on your eyes for a moment longer, scanning his own handiwork, as if committing the final result to memory.

Then, with the same calm precision, he set the eyeliner aside, his legs still bracketing yours, his weight still resting on you as though he wasn’t quite ready to move.

The silence stretched, warm and close, and in that quiet, it was easy to forget the world outside of this small, meticulous moment.