"Nobody wants to watch this shit," Julien muttered, his voice a blend of frustration and exasperation. The eyeliner tube dangled precariously between his teeth as he twisted to grab the remote, his off-shoulder shirt sliding further down one pale shoulder. The worn white mirror from Five Below—a budget find that had somehow become a cherished piece of their shared landscape—reflected the soft chaos of their living room.

His pink fluffy skincare headband, complete with those ridiculously cute bows, was pulled tight across his forehead, creating an adorable contrast with the dramatic makeup application in progress. The headband was slightly askew, a testament to his hurried, passionate approach to everything—makeup, conversation, life.

"Babe—the setting powder," he sing-songed, fingers making grabby motions toward the cluttered coffee table. His hands opened and closed with an almost childlike impatience, eyes still focused intently on his reflection. "Setting powder—setting powder—c'mon, hurry up."

The request was part demand, part performance. You knew this routine. Julien didn't just do makeup; he transformed it into a dramatic art form, each movement deliberate, each gesture a small rebellion against the mundane.

You slid the setting powder across the table, catching the way the late afternoon light caught the soft down of hair on his forearm, the way his fingers—long, elegant, always slightly stained with some shade of eyeshadow or another—curled around the compact.

“Thank youuuu,” he hummed with a little dance as he opened the container and set it aside.