"What music do you listen to, chéri?"Ymir was sitting up on the counter, legs crossed, and quickly sketching whatever had caught her interest.
Which must've been my rear as I was filling up the mason jars with the jelly, facing away from her. At first, when I caught her observing me, I felt insecure, but now I was growing relaxed, trying to not making a mess of myself.
"Well," a glob came off the spoon, falling onto my fingers, "I really like The Decemberists. They sound really nice."
"How hipster of you. You'll fit right in," she chuckled. I licked my fingers clean and kept working until she clicked her tongue, catching my attention as I peered over my shoulder.
Her eyes widened as she gaped.
"AH!" She stopped me before I could move at all. I held still, uncertain why she stopped me, but I had to force my eyes to concentrate on her in the corner of my vision as I barely watched her quickly motioning at her sketchbook.
"Perfect," I heard her mutter.
Never had anyone used perfect as a way to describe something I did.
"You really are a goddess, Historia."
My heart was thrilled that someone as lovely as her would ever compliment me like that. It showed on my face. I couldn't even properly think as she kept staring at me like I was a wonderful piece of art.
"Um—so, Ymir," I felt like I had to talk or else she'd see right through me.
"Yes?" She didn't break her focus. Something I was also glad about because she was in her own world, unaware of my emotional state.
"So, did you come from France, or, um, just like the French language?" I licked my lips and that seemed to only excite her more as she quickly grabbed an eraser, fixing something with eagerness.
"I lived in Vancouver for a while. French is used quite a bit there," she curly answer but was quiet once more.
"Oh, um, where is that?" I didn't exactly know where 'up there' was.
"Canada."
Oh, it would make sense.
"How long did you live up there?" I asked as she leaned back, sketching away.
"I lived up there for a few years. Had some family up there. Though, I lived on a reservation as a kid."
It would make sense why she seemed so pretty. I kept my eyes on her, watching her diligently work, and, sometimes, our eyes would meet and she'd give me a small, warm smile that would set my mind off course.
"Vous etes vraiment belle, Historia."
"You look like an angel."
"Your neck is so delicate."
"You have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen."
"Votre sourire est un don."
The compliments came out every time she gave that sweet, slow grin, earning my bashful giggle in return, and she was the biggest flirt and lover I knew as I stood naked in her kitchen, modeling for her imagination and memories.
I felt infinite in her gaze's hold as she studied me like fine art.
Like any canvass, I yearned for her touch and stroke.