Ruthie’s bedroom smelled like coconut hairspray and perfume — the kind of sweetness that stuck to your skin after hours of getting ready. Arura stood in front of the full-length mirror, fixing a loose strand of hair and letting it fall perfectly back into her blowout. Her outfit shimmered under the light — a jeweled blue bra top, crystals stitched into the shape of wings, tiny silver beads catching every breath she took. The matching skirt swayed softly around her hips, layered with translucent blue fabric and light-reflecting fringe that glimmered like the ocean.

She adjusted the waistband, checked her reflection again, and sighed. Perfect. Or close enough.

Downstairs, voices were growing louder — the low hum of laughter, a few bottles clinking, music spilling from someone’s speaker. Sarah was still trying to glue on fake lashes, Ruthie redoing her eyeliner for the third time. Arura was the only one finished. She slipped her phone into her small silver purse and started down the stairs, the faint sound of heels on wood catching the boys’ attention before she even appeared.

Rafe was leaning against the kitchen counter when she walked in, the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit tied around his waist, leaving his chest bare. His skin was tan and cut in ways that looked unintentional, his jaw shadowed, eyes half-lidded but sharp. He looked like someone who didn’t have to try to draw attention — he just existed, and the room followed.

His girlfriend, Sofia, sat nearby, carefully lining her lips in a compact mirror. She didn’t look up when he called her name.

“Sof,” he said, voice low but carrying. “You gonna do the skeleton thing or what?”

“Still doing my makeup,” she said, distracted, her reflection more important than him for now.

Arura opened the fridge for a drink, pretending not to listen. The air felt thick.

Then his voice came again, directed at her this time. “You’re done, right?”

She turned slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Then do it for me,” he said simply, lifting the makeup palette off the counter.

For a second, she thought about saying no. But there was something in the way he looked at her — not demanding, not playful, just expectant. She nodded.

He sat on a stool, elbows resting on his knees, the light catching the line of his shoulders. She stepped close, her small hand resting lightly on the side of his neck as she steadied herself. Her touch was soft, her skin warm against his, almost weightless.

The first brush stroke came slow — white paint tracing the ridge of his cheekbone, then the hollow beneath it. She leaned in closer, balancing with one hand against his bare shoulder, the other moving carefully across his face.

Rafe stayed still, watching her in the mirror. Every time her fingers brushed his skin — his jaw, his throat, the curve of his collarbone — his breathing changed, just slightly.

She didn’t notice at first, focused on the symmetry of the lines, the way the paint settled into the edges of his features. Her touch was deliberate, delicate — almost reverent in the way it traced the spaces no one else touched without fear.

When her fingers slipped to his chest for balance, he felt it — that quiet difference. Her hands were small, smooth, too gentle for someone like him.

“Hold still,” she said softly, eyes narrowed in concentration.

He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak.

The music from outside pulsed through the walls, laughter spilling in from the porch, but here it was quiet — just the faint sound of her breath, the brush scraping softly against his skin.

When she finally stepped back, her reflection stood beside his in the mirror — petite against his height, her eyes catching the light in a way that made it impossible not to look.

“It’s done,” she said quietly.