It starts as a joke.

You’d found an old cosmetics ad tucked inside a yearbook — thick liner, pale lips, lashes dramatic enough to cause a breeze.

“You wouldn’t survive five minutes in my decade,” Rhonda had said.

“Oh please,” you shot back. “I’d thrive.”

That’s how you end up sitting on the edge of a desk in an empty classroom while she stands between your knees like this is a perfectly normal use of eternity.

“I’m doing it the right way,” she says firmly, holding an eyeliner pencil like it’s a precision instrument. “None of this modern half-effort nonsense.”

You smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She steps closer.

Very close.

One hand tilts your chin up. The other steadies near your cheek as she begins the wing.

Her focus is intense. Brows slightly furrowed. Lips parted just enough to show concentration.

You can feel her breath against your skin.

“Stop staring,” she murmurs.

“You’re staring at me.”

“That’s different,” she replies smoothly. “I’m working.”

Her thumb presses lightly beneath your eye as she adjusts the line.

You swallow.

“You’re shaking,” you tease softly.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

She leans in even closer to prove you wrong.

Which only makes it worse.

Your knees brush her sides.

Her breath stutters — just slightly — when you tilt your chin up a fraction more.

Her hand lingers under your jaw longer than necessary.

You notice.

She notices that you notice.

Neither of you say anything.

“Hold still,” she says, voice lower now.

You do.

Because she’s looking at you like you’re something delicate and dangerous at the same time.

After a few more careful strokes, she pulls back just enough to inspect her work.

“Don’t blink.”

You blink anyway.

She exhales through her nose. “Rebel.”

“Thought you liked that.”

Her lips twitch.

She finishes the other eye, then adjusts your lashes with gentle fingertips.

It’s quiet now. Not teasing. Not sarcastic.

Just close.

When she finally sets the eyeliner down, she doesn’t step away.

Her hands are still resting lightly at your waist from where she steadied herself.

You’re looking up at her through dark, dramatic wings.

She goes still.

Really still.

“God,” she mutters softly, almost to herself. “You’re unfair.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Unfair?”

Her eyes trace your face like she’s memorizing it.

“You look like you walked straight out of my favorite argument.”

You laugh quietly.

But she doesn’t.

Her thumb lifts to your cheek, brushing just beneath the liner she applied.

“You’d have ruined me in the sixties,” she says under her breath.

“And now?” you ask.

Her gaze lifts to yours.

She doesn’t move back.

“…Now I don’t stand a chance either.”

Her hand slides from your jaw to your waist again.

Not pulling you closer. Just holding you there. Like she doesn’t trust herself to let go.

And she doesn’t.