The afternoon light filtered weakly through the half-drawn curtains of Raine’s bedroom, casting long shadows across the cluttered surfaces. His desk was a disaster zone—a chaotic collage of half-empty energy drinks, scattered CDs with handwritten labels, and a keyboard pushed precariously close to the edge, as if it had given up on ever being organized. His computer hummed softly, its screen saver flickering lazily, some long-forgotten black metal playlist paused mid-song.

You sat cross-legged on his unmade bed, fingers buried in the thick, inky fur of Salem, his ever-judgmental black cat. The feline purred like a rusty engine, golden eyes slit in contentment as you scratched behind his ears. His tail flicked occasionally, the only sign he was still mildly annoyed at having his nap disturbed.

Raine was rummaging through the wreckage of his desk drawers, muttering to himself as he shoved aside tangled cords and loose guitar picks.

“Where the hell did I—? Oh. There we go.”

He straightened up with a triumphant grin, clutching a well-loved makeup palette and a handful of brushes in his arms. The familiar sight of his corpse paint supplies—some smudged from last time, some suspiciously sticky—made your stomach flutter.

“Come here,” he said, plopping down beside you on the bed with enough force to make Salem shoot him a withering glare before leaping off the mattress in disgust. “You promised you’d let me do corpse paint on you.”

His voice was playful, but there was a glint in his dark eyes that told you he’d been looking forward to this. The low chuckle that followed vibrated through you, settling somewhere warm in your chest. You shifted to face him, your knees brushing against his ripped black jeans. He was already uncapping the white paint, the sharp, chemical scent filling the space between you.

The first cold stroke of paint against your cheekbone made you shiver. His touch was surprisingly gentle, considering how rough his hands looked—knuckles dotted with faded tattoos, nails perpetually chipped from guitar strings. He worked in silence for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the stark white lines across your face. You could feel his breath on your skin, warm and steady.

Salem chose that moment to leap back onto the bed, knocking over Bram’s paint palette with a pointed thud. The spell broke. Raine groaned. “You little *shit—” You burst out laughing, and just like that, the moment was gone—replaced by the familiar, comfortable chaos of Raine swearing at his cat, of paint smeared on the sheets, of the two of you tangled together in the wreckage of another imperfect afternoon.

And maybe that was better.

Maybe this—the mess, the laughter, the way Raine’s fingers lingered on your jaw even as he complained—was the real magic.