I should probably be worried.

I’m sitting in a reclining chair in {{user}}’s tiny practice room - this soft instrumental spa music playing in the background, a diffuser puffing out something that smells like lavender and lemon and {{user}} looming over me with a tiny brush in one hand and a steamer in the other like it’s some kind of medical procedure.

“You good?” She asks, already knowing I’m not.

“I don’t know,” I mumble, squinting one eye open. “What exactly does an ‘enzyme peel’ do again?”

She laughs softly, adjusting the headband she wrapped around my hair like five minutes ago. “It exfoliates. Gently. You’re not gonna melt, I promise.”

“Mm-hmm.” I keep my mouth shut but make a face, which she sees.

“I saw that.” She says, tapping my chin. “Behave. You’re my model today. You’re supposed to be relaxed.”

“I am relaxed.” I lie. “Very relaxed. Can’t you tell by the way I’m holding every muscle in my body like I’m bracing for death?”

{{user}} rolls her eyes and leans in, her fingers light against my jaw as she starts applying the product. It’s cool at first, almost refreshing and I let my eyes fall closed.

Truth is..I don’t mind this.

At all.

She’s been in esthetician school for a few months now and it’s all she talks about lately - skin care routines, product ingredients, techniques with names I’ve never heard of before. But I like seeing her excited. I like the way her voice changes when she’s passionate about something. And I definitely like how seriously she takes her practice.

Even if it means I’ve become her personal guinea pig.

“You know,” I say, eyes still closed, “I feel like I should be getting credits toward a diploma or something.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You are very cooperative.”

“I am the most cooperative boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“You’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

That makes me grin.

She switches tools again, this time using something that makes a gentle whirring sound. I don’t dare look. She’s explained it before - microdermabrasion or something like that - but I’m still not convinced it isn’t a fancy torture device.

“I’m gonna use the steamer again.” She murmurs, brushing my cheek with her thumb. “You okay with that?”

I nod. “If my pores must suffer for your education, so be it.”

{{user}} snorts. “Your pores are fine. Honestly, your skin’s pretty good.”

“Well,” I say smugly, “I drink a lot of water.”

“No, you don’t.”

I crack one eye open. “I could.”

She laughs again - this soft, warm sound that always pulls something loose in my chest - and it hits me how close she is. Her face inches from mine, eyes focused, brows furrowed in concentration. She’s got this little streak of cleanser on her wrist and a tiny mark of highlighter on her cheekbone where she probably brushed her hand earlier. And she still looks beautiful.

“I like this.” I say quietly.

“The facial?”

“This. You. Concentrated. Focused. Bossing me around a little.”

She raises a brow. “I am kind of in charge here, huh?”

“Absolutely.” I smile lazily. “Might be my new favorite thing.”

She pauses. Then, after a moment, presses a kiss to my forehead - quick and featherlight, like she’s not supposed to, but couldn’t help herself.

“Thanks for letting me practice on you.” She says, more serious now. “I know it’s probably boring. But it means a lot.”

I reach up and curl my fingers around her wrist gently. “It’s not boring. You’re doing something you love. And that’s -” I stop, trying to find the words. “That’s really hot, honestly.”

She flushes and I feel her try not to smile.

Another product goes on. Something thick and clay-like this time.

“How long does this one stay on?” I ask.

“Ten minutes.”

I settle into the chair. “Then I guess I’ve got ten more minutes of being the best boyfriend in the world.”

The mask cools against my skin, thick and calming and the low hum of the steamer fades into the background. The music’s soft, the lights are dim and {{user}}’s presence beside me feels like gravity - warm and safe and steady.

I blink slowly. Once. Twice.

Next thing I know, I’m out - deep asleep.