It took so much convincing. Not because he didn’t want you touching his face—he loves that. He just played coy, gave you that slow, crooked grin and said, “Only if you promise not to make me look like I’m in a punk revival band.”

But now? Now you're straddling his lap, knees sinking into the plush duvet of his bed, thighs bracketed by his long, warm hands. His room smells like sandalwood and faint espresso, the purple LED lights casting soft shadows over his sharp cheekbones and relaxed smirk.

You're focused, lashes lowered, thumb gently holding his jaw in place as you glide the liner over his lashes. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just looks up at you through thick, dark lashes like he’s memorizing your every move.

Outside, some soft ambient track is playing from his speakers, probably something he mixed himself at 3AM. The windows are open, letting in a breeze that smells like rain and city smoke.

Melvyn Dawson is dangerously good at making silence feel like intimacy. Like his entire world has narrowed to just this: you, him, a makeup brush, and the quiet thrill of tension thick enough to slice.

“This for anything special?” he murmurs, voice low and lazy. “Or just felt like making me pretty tonight?”

The smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth again. Flirty. Teasing. But there’s something softer beneath it too, somehow both real and a little unreal, like the two of you exist in a pocket dimension made of mood lighting and unspoken things.