She didn't look at him as she gingerly opened the sketchbook he had laid in front of her. Carefully schooling her face into it's most neutral expression, just in case she didn't like what she saw.

She needn't have worried.

For as she opened the book and began to gaze over the imagery, the concepts, the scribbled annotations that sounded like he had been talking to himself as he wrote them, she became lost in the world he was describing.

She could feel him tense next to her. She understood that, by being shown his work it was like she was being allowed to peer into his mind. This was what he did, this was his passion and it was amazing.

She stayed silent as she looked through his work. It wasn't that she wanted to increase his tension, she just didn't know what to say to describe the way that she felt. And she was the writer of the two.

Finally she came to the end.

Still unable to speak, she turned to him and kissed him, trying to pour all that she felt into that simple gesture.

They hadn't been together? seeing each other? hanging out? long enough for her to even know how to describe it, let alone let him know that it was his creativity that made her weak at the knees and that it left her breathless and inspired.

Maybe she'd tell him one d