"I--that's not--" he breathes like someone dying. His incandescent flush indicates he is very much alive. There are two attractive people looking at him and saying these things baldly to his face. "Guys--listen--I was just surprised. You got me."

He lets slip a snatch of laughter, because this is all so silly, and objectively, the joke was good. He expected them to laugh, especially Paul. Why is Paul so serious about it now, so earnest?

He snatches the notebook to him (quickly but gently, in the careful way he handles other people's possessions). He observes, more properly now, the care with which she was drawn. He's not used to thinking of himself as being looked at like that. It's vastly more important than any other artist's rendition, because of the person who drew it (and the one who added to it). His fingers curl gently around its edges.

Himself, through someone else's eyes.

Looking up at them again deepens the pink in his face, but he doesn't look away. He feels too much sincerity and fondness to cheapen it. The imploding bloom in his chest almost hurts. He doesn't know what it is, exactly, or what to do with it.

"Thank you."