Glisten sighed as he tossed his makeup brushes onto the vanity table, the day’s colours—bright pinks, deep purples, shimmering silvers—smearing under his fingers as he wiped away smudges. He leaned back in the chair, exhaling, the soft glow of street lamps casting long shadows through his window. It had been one of those days—performances, chasing after deadlines, voices raised, laughter and stress tangled together until even his reflection felt a little too sharp.

A gentle knock at the door startled him out of his reverie. Heart thumping, he stood, palms still warm from foundation, and padded to the door. He opened it, and there stood Rodger.

Rodger—tall, stately—suit pressed, tie neat, his one magnifying-glass-head with its large, watchful eye peering down at Glisten. There was something in Rodger’s posture tonight: a softness, maybe, or a tenderness edged with concern.

“May I come in?” Rodger asked, voice low, polite, carrying an unspoken hope.

Glisten swallowed, nodding, stepping aside as Rodger entered. The air shifted. The faint scent of lavender from Rodger’s coat mingled with the lingering faint aroma of makeup remover in the room. Rodger handed Glisten a crisp handkerchief—something Glisten recognized, belonging to Rodger; stiff linen, monogrammed—and offered it with a warmth that made Glisten’s chest flutter.

“I thought… after the day you had, perhaps—if you don’t mind—I could stay the night. Keep you company.” Rodger’s eye softened. “If that’s alright.”

Glisten’s heart felt like it might burst with relief. He smiled—one of those smiles that begins small, at the edges of the lips, then blooms. “Of course,” he said. “I’d like that.”