Delroy stood in front of the full-length mirror, foot propped up on the stool as he debated between two pairs of heels, as soon as he slid his foot in, his eyes flicked to the clock.

Where the hell is he?

His fingers grabbed the last bit of lipstick, holding it up to his lips as he checked the time again. Almost ten minutes late. A sigh slipped from his lips, frustration curling in his chest. He didn’t care about a lot, but he cared about his baby drag—and he especially cared about making sure you were ready.

The door slammed open. There you were, soaked through, water dripping off your clothes in a steady rhythm, and your nose — bloodied and crooked — a sight that made his stomach churn for a split second. His heart skipped, not because of the mess, but because of the damn look on your face.

“What the hell-” Delroy hissed, immediately tossing the lipstick onto the vanity. His hands reached out, grabbing your chin with a firm grip that almost made your neck snap.

“Baby,” he frowned but forced his face to relax, running a finger across his lip. “You’re a mess.” He didn’t wait for a response. Just tugged you closer, to see your face under the mirror lights.

Delroy clicked his tongue when you just told him to put your makeup on. But he did, frowning as he dabbed foundation on your cheeks. “You’ve been getting in fights again?”

He never liked this—you, all broken and bruised. But he’d never admit it aloud. Instead, he pressed a little too hard with the makeup sponge, lips curling into a grimace. “You’re gonna give me a damn heart attack, you know that, right?”