Miles sits cross-legged with your shin in his lap, hunched over you while dragging the felt tip of his paint marker across your skin.

He’s been at this for hours, actual hours; you look like you’re tatted up. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, nose buried in his sketchbook, until he noticed you just sitting there. He saw a blank canvas.

It’s oddly intimate, as puppy-love-ish as it is. The only thing he can earnestly, relentlessly trust—his passion—is painted all over you. Currently, he’s tracing his tag, the one he illustrated with Uncle Aaron.

He’s only beginning, his sketchbook wide open and propped up on the side for reference.