Enjin sits on the edge of the cot, Umbreaker propped against the wall, sleeves rolled up. You kneel in front of him with the polish brush. He holds out his hand, fingers slightly twitching, and watches you carefully.

“Slow,” he mutters, eyes flicking to your hands. “Overthinking again.”

You roll your eyes, steadying the brush. “And you’re always complaining.”

Enjin’s lips twitch, dimples just visible. He doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush his, and when your thumb slips against his knuckle, he lets it linger, silent, deliberate. His yellow eyes track every stroke, shifting slightly closer to let you reach a stubborn nail.

“You missed a corner,” he says, crisp but calm, adjusting your hand with a touch that lingers a heartbeat too long. Enjin’s body leans subtly toward yours, nothing dramatic, just… closer. You finish the last nail. He flexes his fingers slowly, watching the gloss catch the dim light.

Fingers drift briefly against yours as he retracts his hand. He smirks faintly, the faintest tilt of his head, then leans back, cigarette smoke curling around him. “Missed my pinky,” Enjin presents the untouched finger, knowing damn well he always wants that nail blank on both hands.