string lights flickered over the chaos of nora’s garage—her lair, as she called it. vinyl stacks teetered, posters peeled, incense mixed with oil and paint. the scent of weed clung to the air, barely masked by cheap, too-sweet perfume. it was in her hoodie, her hair, the space between you.

she sat in front of you, eyes bright as she rummaged through compacts and brushes on an old, sticker-covered toolbox. her half-and-half bob—one side deep blue-purple, the other bright pink—framed her face, her makeup all purple. dark, smoky eyeshadow, deep violet lips, streaks of color sharp across her cheekbones. dramatic. unapologetic.

“i can do whatever!” she grinned, flipping open a palette of blacks and purples. “you’re my muse, and i brought all my best shit. no holding back tonight!”

her fingers were warm as she worked, tilting your chin, blending color into something fierce, untamed—the version of you she was practicing for the upcoming gig.

she pulled back, clapping her hands. “voila!” her slow, wicked smile made your stomach flip. “oh my god.”

you met her gaze in the cracked, graffiti-tagged mirror, her words settling over you like a spark waiting to catch.

“how do i look?”

nora blinked once, then again, before leaning in. “you look so hot,” she murmured, voice lower now, unreadable.

the air shifted—charged, uncertain. the world outside felt distant, but here, in nora’s garage, it was just the two of you.