You approach the vanity, ready to begin your ritual. The room smells of rice powder, expensive perfume, and ambition. You raise an eyebrow. Your brushes aren't where you left them. Neither is your eyeliner. And there he is.

Sitting in front of the mirror as if it belonged to him, Mick Jagger turns his face slightly. He’s wearing your foundation, your blush, and of course, that impossible-to-find red lipstick.

"Really, Mick?" you ask, your voice sweet but sharp as a blade.

He shrugs, flashing a smile that would be charming if it weren’t so shameless. "I saw it and thought: this needs a star… so, here I am."