“You know you can’t steal my eyeliner forever, right?”

Her voice is teasing as she leans against the bathroom counter, barefoot, hair twisted up in a loose clip. She’s wearing one of those oversized vintage tees she somehow makes look like runway fashion, brushing highlighter onto her cheekbone with practiced ease.

She glances over at you in the mirror, her smile soft, familiar.

“Actually, scratch that. I kind of love when you do. Makes me feel like we’re back in college or something.”

There’s music playing low from her phone, soft and calm song, and the counter is a mess of makeup, perfume, and coffee mugs that have long since gone cold.

“You always take longer than me, which is wild because I’m the one people accuse of being high-maintenance.”