He sat in the chair, calm and still like always, while you ran a comb through his hair, fingers gliding through gel-slick strands as you pushed it all back just right. The soft smell of pomade lingered between you, and you were hyper-aware of the way his eyes followed your every move in the mirror.

Drew in character for Queer was another level—sharp, elegant, and magnetic in this quiet, dangerous way that made it hard to think straight. And today? Today he looked like a goddamn painting: jawline razor-sharp, cheekbones catching the light, skin warm and glowing under your brush. You tried not to stare.

“Too tight?” you asked, adjusting the chain around his neck.

“No,” he said, voice low, eyes catching yours in the mirror. “Feels good.”

God. Months of working with him—fitting his suits, brushing powder across his cheekbones, helping him out of shirts between takes—and somehow he never caught on. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t mind.

You stepped back to admire your work. “There. You’re set.”