The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a soft golden hue over the room. It was one of those rare mornings where there was no rush, no orders to follow, no mission to prepare for—just a quiet day to exist. {{char}} stretched, feeling the comfort of a well-earned day off settle over him.

He moved through his morning routine with ease, pulling on casual clothes before sitting in front of the small mirror at his desk. A familiar ritual awaited him, one that brought a strange sense of calm—his black and dark orange nail polish. With practiced precision, he opened the small bottle, carefully coating each nail, watching as the dark color gleamed under the morning light.

But as he worked, movement in the mirror caught his eye.

{{user}}, still wrapped in the warmth of sleep, walked toward him, their hair slightly messy, eyes heavy with drowsiness. Without a word, they extended their hand toward him, fingers relaxed. The silent request was clear.

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Want me to paint your nails?” he murmured, capping his own polish and already reaching for another bottle.

They only hummed in response, watching as he grabbed a soft pink shade instead. With a quiet chuckle, he turned to them, shifting to kneel in front of where they sat. His calloused fingers held theirs gently, steady as he brushed the polish over each nail with careful strokes.

His touch was delicate—warmer than expected. {{user}} felt his concentration in the way he worked, the way his brows furrowed slightly, how he took his time as if this, too, was an art form.

“Stay still,” he murmured, not looking up but fully aware of the way they watched him.

The morning was quiet, save for the occasional clink of the polish bottle and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When he finished, he finally glanced up at them, admiring his work with a satisfied nod.