1995, summer.

Dylan’s room remained as minimalistic as ever—bare walls, everything in its rightful place, no hint of creative chaos. It was tidy to the point of sterility, a quiet rebellion against the messiness of the rest of her life.

The two girls were settled on the bed, the quiet hum of the afternoon drifting in through the window. {{user}} lay on her back, relaxed, while Dylan sat astride her hips, focused intently on her task. She was applying makeup—something light, subtle, just enough to bring out the natural sharpness of {{user}}’s features.

With her brows drawn together in concentration, Dylan leaned in close, steadying {{user}}’s chin with one hand as she carefully traced eyeliner with the other. Her movements were gentle but precise.

Meanwhile, {{user}} stared up at her with a dopey smile, saying nothing, just watching her with open adoration.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dylan muttered, her frown deepening ever so slightly.