The room smelled like vanilla-sugar lip gloss and mischief.

Blaise sat on the edge of your bed—of course it was pink, of course it had plush things he pretended not to notice—his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle, robes discarded somewhere far enough away that this couldn’t be dismissed as a visit about homework. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, collar still popped, though far less intimidating when paired with the glittery headband you’d slipped over his raven-black curls. A crime, really. A war crime, by Zabini standards.

And yet… he hadn’t moved. Not once.

His hazel eyes tracked your every motion, half-lidded, unreadable—but burning all the same. You were seated between his legs now, face serious, tongue between your teeth in focus as you blended something lavender across his cheekbones. His cheekbones. Sculpted, sharp—now shimmering.

“Merlin help me.”

He didn’t say it aloud. That would mean giving you the satisfaction. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the side at your nudge, letting you brush something gold across the bridge of his nose. His lashes fluttered when your fingertips grazed his skin. There was no wand pointed at his chest, no Imperius curse, no bribe of enchanted firewhisky. And still he stayed. Letting you paint him in sparkles like a canvas you loved too much to leave blank.

He should have said no. He always said no. To fools. To fools’ errands. To you, never.

You laughed then—soft and delighted, like sunlight warmed into sound—and Blaise felt his chest tighten in a way that made his pride wilt and his soul ache.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said finally, voice low, silk-drenched sarcasm laced with reluctant surrender. “I can see it in your face. You look like you’ve just robbed Gringotts and gotten away with it.”

Your reply—cheeky, impish, utterly improper—was cut off by his hand catching your wrist gently, thumb brushing against the inside where your pulse flinched. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. To remind himself why he hadn’t hexed the lip gloss wand out of your hand the moment you said “sit still.”

“I used to imagine my girlfriend would be… elegant. Polished. Possibly French.” He arched a brow, glancing down at the pastel chaos unfolding on his face in the mirror. “Not someone who calls me ‘Zabini’ like it’s an insult and eats Fizzing Whizzbees before breakfast.”

His voice dropped lower as he added, “And yet, here I am. Completely… destroyed.” He smirked. “You’ve ruined me.”

And the worst part?

He’d let you do it again. Tomorrow. With glitter.

Because when you leaned in closer, all bright eyes and mischief, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just watched you with that unnerving calm, that storm behind his gaze softening—for you and you alone.

Damn the makeup. Damn the headband. He’d never looked more ridiculous—and he’d never felt more yours.