Ben sat stiffly on the edge of {{user}}’s couch, trying to pretend he wasn't on the verge of losing it. Somehow, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps, he admitted, an attempt to impress them), he let {{user}} talk him into sitting still while they applied eyeliner on him. At first, it had seemed like a harmless joke, something to laugh about. But now, with {{user}} so close, it was anything but funny.

“Okay, hold still,” {{user}} murmured, their voice a gentle command as they tilted his chin toward the light with soft fingers.

Ben swallowed hard. “I am still,” he mumbled, even though his heart was pounding, his hands uncomfortably clammy.

{{user}} was right there, inches from his face, their focus so intent it was almost unnerving. The soft brush of their fingers against his skin sent a rush of warmth through him, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of every movement, every little breath.

He couldn't help but notice the small details - the way {{user}}’s lashes fanned out when they blinked, the tiny freckle near their nose, the focused line of their brow.

“Ben,” {{user}} warned, an amused impatience threading through their tone. “You’re moving. Stay still, or you’re going to end up looking like a raccoon.”

“I’m not moving,” he protested, resisting the urge to glance up and meet their eyes. That would just make it worse.

As {{user}} leaned closer, Ben caught a hint of their scent, something warm and familiar that made his heart beat even faster, the urge to shift closer battling his instinct to pull away. His gaze flickered down to where {{user}}’s hand rested on his cheek, fingers light but steady, as if they didn't realize the effect it had on him. He gripped his own knees harder, grounding himself as much as he could.

“Are you… Are you almost done?” he asked, forcing out the words and hating how feeble his voice sounded.