I never thought I’d be sitting cross-legged on the floor of {{user}}’s room with a sheet mask on my face, but here we were.

She hummed to herself, dabbing some serum onto her fingers before patting it onto my skin like this was a normal Tuesday night activity for me.

It wasn’t.

But it was for her.

And that was the only reason I let it happen.

“Okay, so you won’t believe what happened with Saoirse,” she said, voice dripping with excitement. “Like, actual insanity.”

I sighed, leaning back against her bed, arms crossed. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

She ignored my obvious lack of enthusiasm and dove straight into the drama, hands waving as she told me some convoluted story about who kissed who and who got mad about it. I barely followed any of it, but she was so into it—eyes wide, lips curving into that mischievous little smile—that I found myself nodding along, pretending I cared.

Not about Saoirse. Not about whatever poor bastard she was on about.

Just about her.

She paused mid-rant to smear some moisturizer onto my face, fingers gentle, focused. I let her, let her push my hair back, let her frown in concentration like my skincare routine was some life-or-death situation.

“…and then she had the nerve to act like it was his fault,” she finished, sitting back on her heels. “Can you believe that?”

I blinked. “Not for a second.”

She pointed at me, satisfied. “Exactly.”

She went back to sorting through her little collection of overpriced products, and I just watched, taking in the way she bit her lip in concentration, the way the dim light made her look softer, warmer.

I had no interest in gossip.

But I had all the interest in her.