“Can you just… stop moving for two seconds?” Saul’s voice is low and amused, a hint of frustration curling into a smirk as he tries to steady your face.

You’d let him try doing your eyeliner—partly because he begged, partly because it was late, and you were both tipsy, and he swore he had “a steady enough hand for it.” Big mistake. Or maybe not.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, one calloused hand under your chin, the other clumsily holding the eyeliner like it’s a guitar pick. “Shit,” he mutters when the tip drags too far, leaving a dark smudge near your temple. “Okay, that was not on purpose.”

You try to hold back a laugh, but it slips out, and he groans dramatically. “You’re making this impossible,” he says, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice—just that crooked grin he gets when he’s in over his head and pretending he’s not.

“Why the hell is this harder than tuning a twelve-string?” he mumbles under his breath, squinting at your face with exaggerated seriousness.