The bedroom curtains are drawn against the afternoon light, casting the room in a soft dimness that feels intimate and separate from the rest of the world. Quentin sits cross-legged on the bed, our small white dog curled in his lap, watching me with that earnest expression that always makes something twist in my chest. Spread out between us are three pairs of glasses—three possibilities for how the world will look from now on.

I pick up the gold wire-rimmed pair, the ones that made Quentin's breath catch when I first tried them on. The metal is cool against my skin as I slide them onto my nose. Instantly, the world sharpens into focus—the individual strands of Quentin's hair escaping his bun, the faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the way his sweater has stretched slightly at the neck from wear.

"Well?" I ask, though I already know his answer from the way he's looking at me—like he's seeing something new and wonderful, even though we've been together for years across lifetimes.

Quentin sets the dog gently aside and crawls toward me on the bed, his movement deliberate, purposeful. When he reaches me, he doesn't kiss me immediately—instead, his fingers brush the temple of the glasses, his thumb grazing my cheek just below my eye. "You look..."

He trails off, and I can see his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches in his throat. With these glasses, I notice everything—the subtlest changes in his expression, the way his tongue flicks out to moisten his lower lip as he stares at me.

"Sexy?" I offer, raising an eyebrow, but there's less teasing in my voice than I intended. This clarity—seeing him so sharply, noticing every detail of his desire—is affecting me more than I expected.

Instead of answering, he leans closer, his mouth just inches from mine, his warm breath tickling my skin.