PAINT MY FACE
I sat on the floor, legs stretched out lazily as I dragged the paintbrush across the paper in slow, careless strokes, not really trying to create anything meaningful, just letting the colors spread however they wanted, because I had absolutely nothing to do and, surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.
“I think I should become an artist,” I said randomly, watching the paint blend into a messy mix of colors beneath my hand.
There was something oddly calming about it.
When my mind was crowded with thoughts I didn’t want to deal with, when everything inside felt too loud, dragging colors across paper somehow softened it, like the chaos in my head was being poured out silently in front of me.
I glanced at Adithya, who was sitting a few steps away on the floor, leaning back against the wall, completely unbothered, as usual.
Last time, I had painted on his hand.
And now—my mind was filled with those random reels where people did aesthetic face paintings.
I wasn’t that talented.
But I was definitely annoying enough.
A slow grin spread across my face.
Without making it obvious, I picked up the paint box and quietly crawled toward him, stopping right in front of him like a child about to do something illegal.
He narrowed his eyes at me immediately.
“Why are you looking suspicious?” he asked.
I chuckled, pulling out my phone and showing him a video of face painting, my grin widening as I looked back at him.
“No way,” he said instantly.
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation, already dipping the brush into bright yellow paint, completely ignoring his protest.
“Sunflowers on your face would look beautiful,” I added, moving closer to him with full confidence, like this was a brilliant idea.
He leaned back slightly.
“Don’t even try,” he warned.
Too late.
I was already leaning in.
I held his jaw with my hand, tilting his face slightly as I studied it like a canvas I had already claimed, my fingers firm enough to stop him from moving away, while he just glared at me through his eyes, clearly unimpressed with whatever I was planning.
“My skin is sensitive, I’ll get allergies,” he said, his voice calm but serious enough to make me pause.
I immediately backed off, my brows pulling together into a small frown as the brush in my hand lowered slowly, the excitement fading just as quickly as it had come, because even though I badly wanted to scribble something on his face, the thought of him getting even a slight allergy made me drop the idea without another second of hesitation.
“Last time I painted on your hand?” I asked, still holding onto a tiny bit of hope, glancing at him.
“My face is very sensitive,” he repeated, more firmly this time.
My smile fell completely.
Without saying anything else, I turned away and scooted back to my place, picking up the paper again and dragging the brush across it, this time without the same excitement, the strokes a little more careless, a little more quiet.
“You’re upset?” he asked.
I didn’t look at him.
“No,” I muttered, clearly lying.
He watched me for a second, then shifted slightly, moving closer without making it obvious.
He suddenly held my wrist, gently lifting it toward his face.
“Paint my face,” he said, looking straight at me.
I frowned instantly, pulling my hand back slightly. “You’ll get allergies,” I said, my voice softer now, the earlier excitement replaced with concern.
He shook his head.
“I won’t get anything,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I just lied to annoy you.”
For a second—
I just stared at him.
Then a smile slowly spread across my face, the kind that came without permission, the kind that felt light.
“You’re so annoying,” I muttered.
Carefully, I reached up and took off his glasses, setting them aside as my fingers brushed against his face for just a second longer than necessary.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even flinch.
I dipped the brush into the yellow paint and slowly brought it toward his face, my movements unusually careful now, like I was afraid to mess it up.
The brush touched his skin.
Right on his temple.
Just beside his eye.
A soft stroke of yellow spread across his skin, bright and warm, and I leaned in slightly, focusing, adding another gentle line, my fingers steady but my heartbeat not quite the same.
He watched me quietly.
Too quietly.
And somehow—
that made it harder to concentrate.
“You like sunflowers?” I asked softly, my voice quieter now as I continued painting, my fingers gently holding his chin and tilting his face from time to time so I could get the strokes right without messing it up.
“I like tulips,” he said.
I hummed in response, dipping the brush again, adding another petal carefully near his temple, my focus shifting between the paint and his face.
“You?” he asked after a moment.
“I like roses,” I replied, a small smile forming on my lips as I leaned in a little closer, finishing the curve of a petal. “Because that’s the flower with which you are going to kneel in front of me,” I added, letting out a soft chuckle.
“So confident?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he watched me.
“Very much,” I said, meeting his eyes for a brief second before looking back at what I was doing.
He didn’t respond immediately.
Instead his hand slowly came up and caught my wrist gently, stopping my movement mid-air.
I looked at him.
He was already looking at me.
“I am waiting for the rose to bloom,” I said softly, just to break the sudden silence that had settled too deeply between us.
He leaned closer. Close enough for me to feel his breath.
My own breath hitched instantly, my fingers tightening slightly around the brush as my heartbeat lost its rhythm.
“It already bloomed, Viyana,” he said quietly.
I frowned, my brows pulling together in confusion, my mind immediately going to the plant because I had checked it this morning and it definitely hadn’t bloomed yet.
What is he talking about?
I turned my face back to him, about to question him, but the words never came out.
Because he was already looking at me in a way that made everything else feel irrelevant.
“The rose hasn’t bloomed yet,” I said, my brows furrowing.
“I’m not talking about the rose plant,” he replied, his voice low, his gaze still fixed on me.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to read between his words.
“You’re not nerdy enough to understand it, Viyana,” he added with a quiet chuckle.
I rolled my eyes immediately, even though I couldn’t hide the smile tugging at my lips, my head shaking slightly at his unnecessary confidence.
“Oh please,” I muttered. “Don’t act like you’re some philosopher now.”
He smiled faintly at that, but didn’t argue.
I turned my attention back to his face, trying to focus on the painting again as I carefully brushed the color over his temple, but his gaze didn’t move from me, steady and intense enough to make my fingers feel slightly clumsy.
“S-stop looking at me,” I said, my voice betraying the nervousness I was trying to hide.
He smiled at that, like he had been expecting it, and finally looked away, giving me just enough space to breathe properly again.
I exhaled softly, steadying my hand as I continued painting, the silence between us now softer, but heavier in a different way.
“Which colour rose will bloom?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice thoughtful this time. “Maybe pinkish… or dark red… or something in between.”
I hummed lightly, adding another small stroke near his eye.
“Pinkish,” I said quietly, as if deciding it for myself.
I slowly dotted a little brown between the petals, finishing the tiny sunflowers near his eyes, my fingers moving with more care than I had ever used before, and when I leaned back to look at it properly, a soft smile spread across my face because it looked… beautiful.
Maybe it was the sunflowers.
Maybe it was my hand.
Or maybe—it was just him.
I quickly grabbed my phone and took a picture before he could complain, then held it in front of him with a bright smile.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked, unable to hide the excitement in my voice.
He didn’t even look at the phone properly.
He looked at me.
And then nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Before I could react, he took the phone from my hand and suddenly clicked a picture of me.
“The artist needs recognition,” he said with a soft chuckle, glancing at the screen.
I grinned, scooting closer to him to see the photo, my shoulder brushing against his as I leaned in.
He turned toward me suddenly.
And our eyes locked.
Everything else blurred.
He leaned closer.
Slowly.
My breath hitched, my fingers curling slightly against my dress as I stayed still, my heart pounding louder with every inch he closed between us.
“Viyana…” he called softly.
“Hmm…” I replied, my voice barely there, my eyes refusing to leave his.
“Can I… can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice hesitant for the first time.
My eyes widened.
My hands started trembling slightly, my mind going blank as I just stared at him, unable to say anything, unable to move.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, misreading my silence, and began to pull away.
But before he could turn completely, I held his jaw and closed the distance.
Pressing my lips against his.
I pulled away almost instantly, barely letting it last longer than a heartbeat, just a soft, unsure peck before I created distance between us again.
Oh my god.
Did I just… do that?
Did I just lose my first kiss to the nurse who worked in my hospital?
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He just stared at me.
And that somehow made it worse.
My fingers instinctively clutched his shirt, holding onto it like I needed something to steady myself, my grip tightening as I lowered my gaze, unable to meet his eyes, my hands trembling slightly despite how hard I tried to control it.
I swallowed hard, my heart still racing uncontrollably, my mind unable to catch up with what I had just done.
He slowly lifted his hand and held my chin, his touch gentle but firm enough to make me look up at him again, and this time I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.
He didn’t rush.
He leaned closer, slowly, like he was giving me time to step back if I needed to, his fingers tilting my face just enough as our noses brushed softly, sending a quiet shiver through me.
My breath caught.
And then—
he closed the distance.
His lips pressed against mine, not hesitant this time, not unsure like mine had been, but soft… steady.
My fingers tightened around his shirt instinctively, holding onto him as my eyes fluttered shut, everything around me fading away, the noise in my head dissolving into nothing.
My hand slowly came up on its own, cupping his cheek, while he leaned in again, this time deepening the kiss in a way that made my breath stumble completely.
My stomach twisted, butterflies erupting wildly inside me as a shiver ran through my body, goosebumps rising along my skin, every nerve suddenly too aware of him.
My fingers tightened around his shirt again, holding him since I was afraid he might pull away too soon.
He didn’t rush it.
He didn’t overwhelm me.
And slowly, he pulled back, just enough, giving me space to breathe, to come back from wherever I had just drifted.
My chest rose and fell unevenly as I tried to steady myself, my eyes dropping instinctively, unable to meet his gaze.
That’s when I noticed it.
My fingers.
Stained with paint.
And the soft yellow and brown I had so carefully painted on his temple....ruined.
Smudged.
My art… gone.
A small, breathless laugh escaped me despite everything, my thumb brushing lightly against his skin where the colors had blurred.
“I ruined it…” I murmured softly, my voice still unsteady.
But he didn’t look at the paint.
He didn’t even care about it.
His hand gently caught mine again, stilling it before I could pull away.
“Worth it." He said quietly.