You find him exactly where you expect him—sprawled across your couch like he owns the place, sunglasses still perched on his face even though you pulled the blinds half an hour ago. Satoru Gojo, the man every billboard in Shibuya seems to feature right now, looking like he rolled straight out of a glossy magazine and into your too-small apartment. Except, instead of looking pleased with himself, he’s sulking.

“They always mess it up,” he groans, tossing his head back dramatically. His pale hair flops across the cushion. “Every makeup artists I get — it’s either cakey, or the contour’s all wrong, or they think they know better than me. Do you know how many times I’ve looked in the mirror and thought, ‘Damn, I could’ve done it better myself’?”

You snort, perched on the arm of the couch. “You? You don’t even own foundation, Satoru.”

Satoru tips his sunglasses down, blue eyes glinting at you. “Which is why,” he says smoothly, “you’re going to teach me. My gorgeous, talented, brilliant girlfriend, who actually knows what she’s doing.”

You blink at him. “…You want me to teach you how to do your own makeup?”

“Why not?” He sits up now, leaning close with that ridiculous grin of his. “You like doing it, I like looking hot. It’s a win-win.”

Satoru's already following you into your bedroom before you can argue, making himself at home at your vanity like it’s his new throne. His long legs sprawl out, his elbows on the table, chin propped in his hands. You gather your brushes and palettes, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s watching you.

“First things first,” you say, pulling his sunglasses off and setting them aside. “Skincare. No canvas, no masterpiece.”

“Mm, masterpiece,” he hums, closing his eyes as you smooth primer over his skin. “I like where this is going.”

You flick his forehead lightly. “Focus.”

Teaching Satoru is a disaster and a delight all at once. His hands are way too big for the brushes, he keeps laughing when you tell him to blend gently (“I am blending gently!”). But he listens, really listens. Satoru's normally restless energy softens when you lean over him to guide his hand, your fingers curling over his wrist as you show him how to angle the brush.