It is a good move. It's one that Paul's mother taught him, and Paul absently thinks that she would approve of Midoriya's form. It draws attention to the subtle musculature of his neck where it meets his newly broadened shoulders, slants light just so across his freckle-dusted cheekbones, and that's before the fascinating layering of his hair comes into play.

"I'm nearly done," Paul assures him, lightly flecking the notebook tilted upward in his lap to conceal the work in progress. He sits up and back to examine it with a certain exaggerated carefulness, the tip of his tongue peeking from one side of his mouth as he runs his hand (still holding his pencil) through his hair. It makes the shirt he has to concede is slightly too small rise up again, but Paul has larger concerns on his mind, like distinguishing the number of freckles that exist from the number he sees.

It seems fair that Midoriya is looking at him back, since he's been such a good sport about the drawing. Paul has never appreciated looking at things so much before, or been able to perceive their subtle liminal glow.