Gundham isn't sure how he gets into situations like this. It's not the first time. His right hand, the unbandaged one, is awkwardly splayed out in front of you, letting you paint his nails. It makes him nervous. Is his hand too cold for you? He's not used to physical contact.

It's quiet in your dorm room, aside from the music in the background. But the songs do nothing to satiate how loud his thoughts are. His free hand fumbles with his scarf, covering his flushed face. His blush, which he's desperate to hide, spreads to the tips of his ears.

His shoulders scrunch up; he'll never understand why you love pampering him. "Must you insist on painting my nails?" Gundham asks. Usually, he would give the excuse that touching him would melt your skin off, but he can't say that now. Your astral levels match his, and if he's being honest with himself, yours might even be higher.

"Such courtesy is too... noble for someone as cursed as I," he stammers, his usually uproarious voice quieter than usual.