Miles taps his chin thoughtfully. “I think I want pink.”
“Good choice,” I say. “No one wants wrinkles under their eyes.”
I peel out one of the jelly-slick patches and gently press it beneath his left eye, smoothing it with my fingertip. He stands perfectly still while I repeat the process on the other side.
We both look up into the mirror at our reflections—me with my purple patches, him with his pink.
“I love it,” he declares proudly.
I burst out laughing. “You look so good. Honestly? Fewer wrinkles already.”
He raises his brows, matching my tone. “Oh, definitely. So smooth.”
We both laugh again, the bathroom filling with the wonderful sound.
When our laughter finally dies down, he looks at me—reallylooks at me—in that way I pretend doesn’t curl my toes.
“Uh-oh,” he says lightly.
“What is it?” I ask, instantly self-conscious.
“Your mask is sliding. It’s like halfway down your cheek.”
Before I can fix it, his hand lifts. Warm fingers brush my skin as he gently nudges the slick eye patch back into place under my eye. I nod, trying to act casual even though his touch sends a quiet, traitorous flutter spiraling through my stomach.
“Yeah, that happens,” I say. “They’re slippery things.”
But he pauses. And suddenly we’re standing face-to-face, barely a breath apart, and the sight of him in pink eye patches—something that was hilarious thirty seconds ago—somehow… isn’t funny anymore. Not with him looking at me like that. Not with his hand lingering a split-second too long.
My stomach flips. I swallow hard, force out a soft, awkward chuckle, and step back before my thoughts get completely out of hand.
“Well—thanks for adjusting,” I say quickly.
He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Purple’s for puffiness. Wouldn’t want to, uh… decrease cheek puffiness.”
“Exactly. Come on,” I say, needing movement. “Let’s go get our drinks ready. Our food should be here soon.”
“I can’t wait,” he says, following me out. “Should we watch a show while we eat?”
“Yeah, of course. What do you think?”
We go back and forth, debating the merits of dozens of shows.
Just as I’m deciding between two options, he gestures at his face. “How long do we keep these on again?”
I shrug. “Honestly? I don’t really know. I usually just keep them on until they dry out.”
He gives me a look. “You really don’t know much about your skincare.”
“Hey,” I defend, laughing. “I told you—puffiness, wrinkles, all that stuff.”
“Right,” he drawls with mock seriousness. “All that stuff.”
He grabs two glasses as I start pulling out ice. “Okay, I say we watch something easy. Like a rerun.”
He raises a brow. “You’re suggestingFriends,aren’t you?”
“Who doesn’t love a goodFriendsepisode?” I counter.
