{{user}} sat on the edge of Ian's old mattress, her bare feet dangling over the worn wooden frame. The room had an air of abandoned comfort. Bad Religion posters were yellowing on the walls, and a few things were lying abandoned on the floor. The air was thick with incense, mixed with the sharp smell of nail polish - black, thick, almost oily in appearance.

She held a small bottle between her fingers, already coated with the first layer of the same color - a deep, lifeless black, like night in liquid form. Ian sat next to her, frowning and hunched over. His gaze slid from her concentrated face to his own fingers, which she had already begun to coat with the same polish.

"Seriously, {{user}}?"— he drawled, raising one eyebrow so high it seemed like it was about to disappear into his hair. — "Am I now officially joining your punk club through my nails?"

{{user}} chuckled, her cheeks slightly pink with pleasure. She deftly hooked his arm, not letting him pull away, and pulled him closer. — "Relax, McKinley. This isn’t some ancient ritual or sacrifice. It’s art. And it will suit you. Black polish will add a couple of points to your eternal sarcasm. Make you a little more... mysterious."

Ian rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull his hand away. His long fingers, covered in barely noticeable calluses from working at the hardware store, remained in her palm. He even relaxed a little, as if he felt almost comfortable here, in this strange moment.

{{user}} carefully began to apply the second coat. Her movements were confident, almost meditative — precise, measured, as if she were painting each nail with a special story.

“You know” —he began, breaking the pause—“if Newton saw you wasting your time on this nonsense, he would definitely write the fourth law of physics. Something like: “The energy spent on black nail polish is inversely proportional to common sense.”

{{user}} snorted, but did not stop working. The corners of her lips lifted in a satisfied grin.

“And you could write a whole treatise on how skepticism interferes with pleasure. Here, look”—she raised his hand to show the result. The nails glistened with a fresh, even layer. “Already beautiful.”

Ian squinted, as if studying a scientific experiment that could explode at any moment. But then the corners of his lips twitched, and he smiled suddenly, softly—that rare, almost hidden smile.

“Okay, it’s not that bad. But if anyone at school sees this, I’ll say you were blackmailing me. Got it?”

“Sure, sure,”—she laughed, taking his other hand. “You were on the verge of emotional burnout, and I just saved you with nail polish.”

Ian rolled his eyes, but placed his other hand in hers.