Without thinking—certainly without asking—I reached out and gingerly brushed a rogue streak of paint on her chin. Wide gray eyes stared up at me and my mouth went dry as my thumb slid under her bottom lip, just enough pressure to make it yield. Even covered in black and white paint with rosy puffin cheeks and a paper beak, Lark was beautiful. And not only objectively, based on facial geometry or social consensus. Beautiful to me. Utterly captivating.
