So a raft was not exactly as sturdy as a boat felt, Imogen was beginning to realize with a sick feeling surely rising in her throat. A dry, parched feeling had began to bubble at the base of her throat, the longer their rather patchy raft rolled on the sea. Enoch and Jacob held the last two paddles they had managed to salvage from their wreckage of a boat, but otherwise, the blank piece of wood was simply held together by twine, so sparse in which Imogen was beginning to wonder if it was even capable of holding all of their weights.

Somehow though, her apprehensive look and possibly greening complexion might have showed, for suddenly the girl felt a warm grip pull her by the arm, away from the edge of the raft. "Stay away from there, unless you plan on toppling over for an afternoon swim." A hint of a laugh swam on the edges of the tone, but Imogen would never mistake that tone for anyone else's, so used she was by now to the teasing lilt in his voice, easy going tone, and everything it was that made it Millard's. How does one recognize someone you've never even see anyway? Don't ask her how, but she just did, and only when it was Millard.

Settling comfortably next to him, the rest of their gang didn't even give a second glance at how Imogen seemed to be leaning against Millard, before an idea that suddenly popped in her head made her green eyes sparkle. "Millard, when was the last time you got a good look at yourself?"

"What?" His tone suggested that he must have thought she was mad, but now Imogen was beyond curious. She wanted to know the face behind that warm voice that gave her the thrills, someone she had come to rely on no matter how blind it may be. "No really, tell me."

"Well…" his tone trailed off, suggesting that Millard was a little hesitant. For a second, Imogen was prepared to fight tooth and nail for him to tell her more, but when she felt him relaxed against her, she happily grinned when he began talking. "A good 80 or so years ago. I started dissapearing when I was seven, and the last of me went when I turned eight. Since I've been in the loop for 80… around there." Imogen let the silence between them hang for a little, before much to Millard's surprise, she began pulling her sketchbook out of her satchel, comfortably settling with her back leaning on his shoulders.

"Tell me about yourself."

"What?"

"Tell me." Her voice was stubborn, as was that upturned nose that Millard was beginning to think both annoying and adorable. Just what was this green-eyed minx wanting to do now? For the life of him, he couldn't decipher her actions, but knowing better than to argue with her, he complied, all while his arm itched to reach out and haul her to sit on his lap instead so he could get a good look and what she was going to do. "I… have blond hair." He paused, not at all sure how else to go on. What does one say to describe themselves? "Well?"

He recognized that annoyed tone, and scowled good-naturedly at the girl's head next to him. "I usually comb it back. I hate my hair disturbing my eyes. My forehead… I'd say it's pretty wide? My momma used to say my brows were as bushy as a squirrel's tail. Green eyes, like yours. Oh, people used to say I had a nose as sharp as a hook, high apparently. I was tall, even for my age, but tiny. My sister envied how I could eat and eat and never gain a pound. At least not visible ones." The whole time he talked, Millard could hear the scratching of her chalk on her sketchbook, yet moving would disturb her movements so he stayed still, until he felt her shift, and mourned the loss of her heat against his as she moved away.

Less than a second later however, he saw Imogen crouch in front of him, much to his surprise, and presented her two hands at him. "Bring me to your face. Cheeks." Her sudden command caught him by surprise, and it wasn't till she nudged him with her feet, did Millard jump to attention again, taking her palms with his and pressing them against his cheeks. He desperately hoped that she couldn't feel the intense heat flaming them at her touch, but Imogen seemed to absorb with brushing her fingers over his cheeks, the nose, pair of eyes, ears, and even thumb across lips which had Millard straining to take them between his teeth with a playful nip.

Finally, when it seemed Imogen was satisfied with her exploration, she retreated back to lean against his shoulder again, and by then Millard was all kinds of confused and frustrated. "What was that for?"

But Imogen hushed him, warning him to not move as she settled against him again. "Must you sketch now? Against me?" Millard asked again in amused frustration.

"It distracts me from feeling seasick."

"You get seasick?" He asked immediately, concern coming forth before his minor frustration at her odd behaviour. She hummed, shaking her head. "It's no problem. I've just never been on a raft before. It's a little bit more unsteady than a raft."

"C'mere." Unable to stop himself anymore, and after making sure Enoch and Horace were busy with the oars, while Emma held a sleeping Jacob steady so he didn't roll off the edge, Millard shifted so she leaned against his chest. "Eh?" Imogen made a surprised look, looking around (although a little pointless, considering Millard is still very much invisible), only to have the guy shift again so she couldn't really turn. "Continue, don't worry. This is just more stable."

Imogen bit her lip, surprised at how intimate their position was now with his arms (presumably) making a barrier around her, but she did as he said and continued sketching. The process was slow, considering the rocking of the raft resulted in her having to be more careful, and as such progress was slower than usual. Even when they finally grounded on the very small beach on the mountain island, she was only half done.

Despite arriving however, the group decided against scaling the steep sides as night began to creep its way in. Horace worried that they were taking too long for Miss Peregrine, what with them being delayed, but Emma vetoed against them endangering their lives scaling a steep mountain in the dark. As such, they remained huddled under one of the many dens around a fire. Horace and Enoch had long since fallen asleep, worn out from a long day of manning the oars. Emma and Jacob had went to take a walk around to figure out what their plan of action was the next day, leaving Imogen who was still very much concentrated on her sketch.

She had sprawled in front of the fire now, appreciating the light and warmth it gave off as she worked on it, Millard seated next to her. "What are you so intent on anyway?"

"Can't you tell?" The cheeky lilt in her voice made the male's heart skip a beat, trying hard not to let the effect on him show up as he spoke. "Who can tell, when you're working with minimal light and continuously try to block my view." Imogen laughed, flashing a cheeky grin in his direction that blossomed warmth in his chest, before she returned to her work, and he returned to observing her. "Are you almost done?"

"Almost. Just a bit more."

True enough, within the next half an hour or so, Imogen put the final few touches, pulling in her various colored chalks to fill in the blanks. Just before midnight, the dark haired girl finally scrambled up, holding her sketchbook before her to observe it, before finally giving a nod of approval. "All done!"

"Can I see now?" Millard ventured to try again, and finally smiled when she nodded and handed it to him. It took awhile for his eyes to get adjusted in the dim light, flickering flames, but when he finally registered what she had actually drew, even he couldn't stop the gasp of surprise. "This is…"

"I hope I did it accurately, considering I was going on instinct."

"Is it… me?"

"Did I get it right?" Imogen asked chirpily, settling next to him to look at the sketch as well. High cheekbones, sharp nose along with her shaded dirty blond hair and green eyes… something in Millard shifted, tender yet sweet for this was literally the first time in close to 80 years since he's seen himself. "You… made him different?"

"You, Mill. Not different, just older, since I'm quite sure you're no longer ten after we've left the loop for so long."

He didn't know how to respond, wonderment stalling his words and his actions. Millard couldn't tear his eyes away from the sketch, a face that should be so familiar, yet at the same time was so foreign to him. He brought his fingers to brush along the curves of the cheekbones, the sharp, spiky hair he knew she had felt as Imogen ran her hand across his features just a few hours ago… was that really how he looked like now?

"Do you like it?"

Her voice jolted him out of his reminiscing reverie, bringing his attention to her instead. Perhaps it was because of the night air, or maybe just because Millard was too distracted by the sketch of him, that he hadn't realized Imogen's proximity to him. So when he turned to her voice, his heart jumped into his throat when he realized how close she sat now next to him. Combining the distance with the fact that what she had just done for him was so impossibly sweet, the ballooning swell of affection and warmth he felt for her all exploded as he leaned down and caught her lips, displaying his thanks and adoration for the surprising little peculiar in one fell action.