With her permission, I'm more liberal in my discovery, retracing first her cheekbones, and then her brows, lifting my other hand to mirror myself, and get a better sense of symmetry. My fingers brush over the bridge of her nose, the line of her jaw, but I leave the best for last. While her mouth is, at this point, the least mysterious part of her beyond her hands, there's a delight in memorizing the pout of her lower lip. The pressure of my touch never changes, every point of connection as light as the first, but a shape starts to form in my mind's eye, one undoubtedly different from a man who could see, but unique to me.

I smile a little, my own brows inching up from behind my glasses. In a tone that borders on reverent, I murmur, "You're beautiful."