{{user}} sat cross-legged on the bathroom counter, a mess of makeup products scattered around her—compacts half open, brushes rolling dangerously close to the edge, a tube of lip gloss resting in her lap. She was focused, meticulously blending out her concealer, the glow of the vanity lights illuminating her face.

Rafe leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with a lazy smirk. “You know, I don’t get it,” he said.

{{user}} didn’t even glance at him. “Don’t get what?”

“All of it.” He waved a hand toward the explosion of beauty products around her. “You already look good.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that tugged at her lips. “It’s not about that.” Dipping her brush into bronzer, she swiped it along her cheekbones, her movements precise. “It’s about the process.”

Rafe stepped closer, placing both hands on the counter beside her thighs, trapping her in. “The process, huh?” His breath was warm against her skin. “So, like… the part where you spend an hour making your lips all shiny just for me to mess them up later?”

She scoffed, shoving him back with one hand while applying mascara with the other—a skill that impressed even him. “Don’t start, Cameron.”

He chuckled but didn’t move far, still watching as she carefully lined her lips. The way she worked—focused, calm, confident—it did something to him.

“You done yet?” he asked, impatience creeping into his tone.

{{user}} capped the gloss, tilting her head as she examined her reflection. Then, finally, she turned to him, blinking up with those big, freshly mascara-coated lashes. “Almost.”

Rafe groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. “You kill me, babe.”

She smirked, dragging a finger under her eye to fix an invisible mistake. “You’ll survive.”

Barely.