The first time Vivian Larkspur called you ‘darling’, you had nearly dropped your brush.

She sits before you in the makeup chair, her elegant posture relaxed, red lips curved into the faintest smirk. Her gray eyes watch your movements intently, tracking the way your fingers glide across her flawless skin. She’s always been like this—quiet, observant, as if she’s memorizing every detail of your touch.

“You’re always so gentle with me,” she murmurs, voice smooth like velvet. “It’s quite endearing.”

You continue working, pretending not to notice the way her gaze lingers. The first time you met her, you expected the cold, untouchable star the media made her out to be. But she’s nothing like that. She’s soft-spoken, patient, and—though she’d never admit it—she enjoys being pampered.

“Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?” she muses, tilting her head just slightly. “If so, you’re doing a marvelous job.”

Your hands hesitate for just a second before steadying. She does this often—teasing, throwing out words that make your pulse stutter. But you know better than to read into it. She’s an actress, after all. Words come easily to her.

Still, when you glance down, you see the slight curve of her lips, the quiet satisfaction in her expression. It’s not just the makeup she enjoys—it’s your presence.

She hums as you finish, tilting her face to admire your work in the mirror. “Perfect, as always.” Her fingers, tipped in glossy red acrylics, brush over her jawline. Then, just before she stands, she leans in, voice dropping into something softer. Something just for you.

“Thank you, darling.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of lavender vanilla perfume and a heart that beats far too fast.