The bottle of black polish clinks softly as you open it. Enzo watches—tense, unreadable. His fingers twitch once, then still. You meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur. “I just thought it might be fun.”

He hesitates… then slowly pushes his hand a little closer to you. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“I trust you.”

That means more than any declaration could. You nod and gently take his hand in yours—he doesn’t flinch. His skin is warm. Calloused. You move carefully, giving him time to pull away. But he doesn’t.

You start painting—smooth, even strokes, black against the pale curve of his nail. The silence between you is soft, thick with something fragile. He watches your face instead of the polish.

You glance up. “You’re staring.”

He shrugs. “I’m waiting to see if this is the part where you start laughing at me.”

You smile, gentle. “Never. You look good in black.”

His ears go a little red.

You finish the last finger on his left hand. He lifts it slowly, inspecting the glossy coat with a strange sort of wonder.

“You missed a spot,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re really gonna be picky now?”

His mouth quirks—half a smirk, half something shy. “You offered. I’m just making sure I get the full experience.”