Rodrick was sprawled across {{user}}’s bed like a dead body, one arm dangling off the edge, drumsticks still in his hand. His eyeliner—what was left of it—was smudged so badly he looked like he’d just crawled out of a dumpster after fist-fighting a raccoon.

{{user}} stood over him, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Sit. Up.”

Rodrick didn’t move. “I am up. Emotionally.”

She grabbed his chin between her fingers and yanked his face toward her. “You look like you’ve been crying in a McDonald’s parking lot. This is a concert, not a breakdown.”

He blinked at her. “…I was sweating.”

“From what? Breathing?”

She shoved a makeup palette onto the blankets and climbed onto the bed beside him, pinning his shoulder with her knee so he couldn’t escape. He froze, wide-eyed, like a dog during bath time.

“Don’t move,” she warned, picking up a brush. “You idiot.”

Rodrick’s smirk twitched. “You know, most girlfriends are like, ‘Good luck, babe!’ Not ‘I hope you don’t look like a trash panda on stage.’”

“Yeah, well, most girlfriends don’t have to deal with this.” She gestured at his face like it was a crime scene. “You rubbed your eyes. Why would you rub your eyes?”

“They itched!”

“So does stupidity. Yet here you are.”

She started fixing the eyeliner—sharp, clean, intentional. Every time she leaned in, Rodrick went a little quieter, a little redder around the ears. He tried to look away, and she gripped his jaw tighter.

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving!”

“You’re breathing weird.”

“That’s just what my face does when you’re close.”

Silence. His ears went even redder.

She ignored it—kind of. “Tilt your head.”

He obeyed surprisingly fast. For once, he wasn’t smirking or joking. Just watching her, eyes half-lidded, letting her take control like he trusted her more than he’d ever admit.

“You’re really bossy, you know,” he muttered.