Makeup isn’t just a routine. It’s not vanity or a simple act of beautifying—it’s armor, it’s ritual, it’s transformation. For some, it’s a mask to hide behind, a way to disappear or become someone else. But for you, it’s more than that. It’s a persona—an extension of who you are when you don’t quite know how to be yourself. When the world feels too loud, too sharp, too judgmental, you turn to the brush, the liner, the color. With each stroke, each contour, you build a version of yourself that feels powerful. Controlled. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Applying it is easy. It’s comforting. It’s art. But taking it off… that’s the hard part.

You step into the dim bedroom, the only light filtering through the cracks in the curtains, warm and tired. On the vanity sits your makeup remover and a neat stack of cotton pads, waiting patiently like they do every night. You flick on the lamp. Its amber glow softens the shadows but not the ache in your chest.

It’s time again.

You sit slowly, the quiet hum of the room settling around you like a heavy blanket. Reaching for the bottle, you soak a cotton pad with gentle, practiced movements. Then, just as you bring it to your face, your hand hesitates in midair. Hovering. Trembling slightly.

The reflection stares back at you. The version of yourself you spent time sculpting this morning. Lashes dark and full. Skin smoothed. Lips the color of confidence. A woman who walks through the world with her chin up and her guard higher.

You take a breath. A deep, steadying one. And then you press the cotton to your skin. Gently. Slowly. Watching as the makeup lifts away, layer by layer. Your real skin begins to emerge—softer, quieter, more vulnerable.

You set the used pad down, reach for another. But before you can continue, you feel the weight of arms sliding around your waist. Strong, grounding. A warm chest presses into your back, and a familiar scent wraps around you: leather, faint cologne, something uniquely him.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Simon whispers, voice low and rough against the shell of your ear. His lips brush your temple like a prayer, soft and reverent.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. He sees you. Not just the face you present to the world—but you. The woman beneath the layers. The one who flinches at her own reflection some days. The one who questions her worth in the silence of the night. The one who wonders if she’s ever enough.

He knows.

One of his hands comes up, fingers tracing your cheek with the gentleness of someone holding something precious. His thumb strokes along the line where your makeup once was, now bare. Honest.

“My gorgeous girl,” he murmurs, and the way he says it—like it’s fact, like it’s truth, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters—breaks something open inside you.

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat as his arms tighten around you. It’s not just comfort—it’s sanctuary. He’s not trying to fix anything. He’s not asking you to smile or pretend. He’s just there. And in his presence, you feel allowed to be soft. To be raw. To be seen.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t wipe them away. Not yet. You let them fall—quiet, unashamed—because in this moment, you’re not the mask, or the persona, or the polished illusion.

You’re just you. And he loves you anyway.

Maybe even more because of it.