You sat at your vanity, carefully applying the finishing touch to your eyeliner. Your jewelry was already on, perfume lingering sweetly in the air. Everything felt perfect tonight—soft lighting, your favorite dress laid over the back of the chair, and quiet music humming from your phone speaker.

Behind you, Billie was sprawled across the bed in full dramatic fashion, like getting ready was physically painful for him.

“Babe…” he groaned, dragging the word out. “You’ve been getting ready for seven years. We’re gonna miss the whole dinner and end up just eating breadsticks.”

You glanced at him through the mirror, catching the pout on his face. He had one arm tossed over his forehead, as if the waiting was too much to bear.

“I’m literally putting on mascara,” you said, half-laughing, half-focused.

“I know, I know.” He sighed heavily, shifting onto his side to face you more directly. “But you’re already beautiful. You could walk out like that in sweatpants and I’d still lose my mind.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled to yourself, cheeks warm. You knew he meant it.

He pushed himself up to sit, resting his elbows on his knees, watching you with a quiet kind of admiration. “Just don’t take forever, alright? I’ve been thinking about tonight all week.”

“I won’t,” you said softly, capping your mascara. You met his eyes in the mirror again, and this time neither of you looked away.

He grinned. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve got plans for us.”