The makeup room was small and warm, lit with those unforgiving vanity bulbs that made every tiny movement show. Christian sat in the chair, scrolling lazily on his phone while you, his hair stylist, stood behind him, fingers working through his hair with that light, practiced touch.

It started subtle — the way his legs shifted, the way his shoulders leaned back just slightly so you had to stand closer. Your hips brushed against the arm of the chair once… then again.

You didn’t notice at first, too focused on smoothing the strands and getting them to fall just right. But Christian did. Oh, he noticed. He stopped scrolling, letting the phone rest in his lap as he watched you in the mirror. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every time your wrists brushed the back of his neck.

And then… he shifted again, just a little, and you caught it. The slight bulge under his jeans. The way his thighs tensed.

He didn’t say a word — just smirked at your reflection, like he knew you’d seen it. His hand rested on his thigh, thumb idly rubbing against the seam of his jeans right next to where he was hard.