The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of a fan and the occasional rustle of pages as Bill flipped through a dog-eared comic book. You sat cross-legged on your bed, applying a soothing cream to your face, the scent of aloe vera lingering in the air. The soft glow from your bedside lamp cast a warm light, contrasting with the sharp angles of Bill's features as he scowled at a particularly contentious panel.

"You know," you began, dabbing the cream onto your cheeks, "this stuff really helps with breakouts. You might want to try it."

Bill looked up, his expression a mix of disdain and disbelief. "What? Put that goop on my face? No thanks. That's... that's not something a guy does."

You raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards the noticeable blemishes on his forehead. "Come on, it's just skincare. It's not going to kill you."

He huffed, setting the comic aside. "Look, I don't need some fancy cream to fix my face. I'm not some fag boy actor. Besides, it's all a scam by the beauty industry dumb bimbo fucks run trying make us feel bad about ourselves."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes. "It's just moisturizer, Bill. No one is gonna call you sum' slur over literally cream."

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Next thing you know, you'll be telling me to get a facial or something. Hell no. I'm fine the way I am."

You sighed, deciding not to press the issue further. Bill's stubbornness was as much a part of him as his encyclopedic knowledge of comic lore. Still, you made a mental note to sneak some cream into his backpack later. Maybe he'd come around eventually.