After months of relentless pleading, Simon Riley finally caves. With a heavy sigh, he hands you the equipment, his usual resistance crumbling in the face of your persistence. He was never good at denying you for long—especially when you looked so disappointed afterward.

Carefully, you settle in front of him, determined to do this right. You try to avoid sitting on his lap, shifting awkwardly in search of a better position, but Simon quickly picks up on your struggle. With a low, amused grunt, he grips your waist and pulls you onto his lap himself, settling you with an ease that makes your breath hitch.

"Stop squirming," he mutters, voice gruff but laced with something softer, something indulgent.

You nod, swallowing back any embarrassment, and focus on your task. His intense gaze follows your every move—the way your brows knit together in concentration, the slight scrunch of your nose as you angle the applicator just right. His usual sharp exterior seems to melt, just for a moment, as he watches you work.

You shift slightly, trying to get a better angle, and Simon tenses beneath you. A quiet grunt slips from him, his hands instinctively tightening around your waist for just a second before he exhales, letting you adjust without complaint. Anyone else would’ve earned a sharp remark, a warning to move, but with you, he stays silent. He lets you be close.

As you carefully trace the final strokes, you catch glimpses of his expression—relaxed, almost unreadable, but undeniably focused on you. He offers the occasional quiet correction, murmuring his approval when you adjust accordingly. Even though you only respond with small nods or soft hums, he doesn’t seem to mind.

When you finally lean back, tilting your head to inspect your work, a proud smile tugs at your lips. The lines are sharp, precise—just as they should be. You glance at Simon expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

He shifts slightly, studying his reflection before looking back at you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something unreadable