Sarah sits cross-legged on the bed, one hand on your jaw as she tilts your face toward the window light.

“Don’t move,” she says. Quiet. Focused.

You try not to. Her fingers are warm where they rest just beneath your cheekbone a featherlight touch, but your skin burns under it like she’s holding fire instead of a highlighter brush.

She leans in. The scent of her shampoo, something clean and summery, curls in the air between you. Her breath brushes the side of your face as she murmurs, “Close your eyes.”

The soft sweep of the brush across your cheek is almost nothing. Almost. You feel every stroke like it’s something more. Like she’s painting thoughts she won’t say.

“Okay” she whispers, more to herself than to you, “that’s actually perfect.”

You open your eyes and turn your head slowly, not away from her hand but toward it. Her fingers hesitate, then slide down just slightly, tracing the edge of your jaw like she forgot to stop.

Your eyes meet. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

She blinks first, clears her throat like nothing just happened, and leans over you again to dig through the little makeup bag on the bed.

“You need mascara,” she says, voice clipped lighter now, as if that pause, that heartbeat of almost-too-much, didn’t just happen.

You nod. She’s closer now, crouched in front of you. Her knees bump yours. She steadies your chin again, and you swear her fingers linger longer than necessary.

“Don’t blink,” she murmurs.

You try not to. She applies it slowly, lashes brushing the wand with precision, her other hand resting lightly on your temple for balance. Your heart is not subtle. Not at all.

When she finishes, she sits back, eyes narrowed in concentration as she scans your face.

“You look good” she says finally, low. “Like… really good.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

Then her fingers are on your lips just the lightest touch. “Wait,” she says. “Lipstick.”

She reaches for the tube like it’s nothing, like this is normal, like she hasn’t already crossed ten invisible lines and pretended not to notice. She uncaps it carefully, twisting the stick up with slow precision.

“Open a little,” she says.

Your lips part. She leans in.

Her hand cradles your jaw again this time firmer, more deliberate and the lipstick glides across your bottom lip with practiced ease. Her eyes flick down, then back up to yours.

She’s too close.

She finishes the top lip. Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, smudging something or pretending to.

Her eyes flicker up to yours, then to your lips again, she doesn’t move, neither do you.