Rafe’s sitting on the edge of your bed, arms crossed over his chest like he’s bracing for some kind of torture. He’s still in his jeans, even though you told him to “get comfortable” like an hour ago. Stubborn as hell, always. His brows knit together in this permanently annoyed look he’s got going on, like the very idea of being here is beneath him. But you know better. You always do.

“This is fuckin’ stupid,” he mutters, glaring at the little lineup of skincare products on your nightstand like they personally offended him.

You roll your eyes, tugging his wrist to get him to sit back. He lets you—of course he does, even if he’s bitching about it. “You agreed,” you remind him, smirking when he huffs like it’s some big inconvenience. “Stop being a baby.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but when you straddle his lap to start swiping cleanser across his face, he doesn’t move. Just sits there, jaw clenched, eyes flicking up to yours like he’s daring you to make fun of him. But you don’t. Not yet, anyway.

“Relax, Rafe. You’re gonna love this.”

He doesn’t relax. Not even close. His hands hover near your waist like he’s not sure what to do with them, and his shoulders stay all tense beneath you. But you can tell he’s watching you, the way his blue eyes track every move you make like you’re the only thing in the room.

And then—absolutely not—you pull out the headband. The one with tiny pink cat ears on it. His brows shoot up, and for a second, you think he’s gonna walk right out. “No fuckin’ way,” he says, shaking his head like you’ve completely lost your mind.