naoya zen’in was many things: talented, insufferable, painfully aware of his own face card.

what he was not was patient.

so when you come up behind him with an eyeliner pencil and say, all casual, “hold still. let me do your eyeliner,” he doesn’t even look surprised. one sharp brow lifts in that way that says he’s already decided to make this your problem.

“tch. as if i need help,” naoya muttered, already sitting straighter. "but if you’re gonna insist, do it properly.” then, immediately— “sit.”

you blink. “sit where?”

he pats his lap like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “you can’t reach properly from there. hurry up, my back’s getting stiff.”

the audacity is breathtaking. the man is your husband and somehow still acts like this is a royal favor.

you climb onto his lap anyway, because unfortunately, he’s right.

naoya leans back in his chair, one arm loosely settling around your waist—not tight, not possessive, just enough to keep you steady. he tilts his chin up on purpose, clearly enjoying how focused you get.

“you better not mess it up,” he mutters. “i've got a reputation.”