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Rythian isn’t sure how he got roped into this.
One moment, Zoey was rummaging through her bag, pulling out all manner of odd trinkets and mushrooms and brightly colored nonsense, and the next, she had plopped down across from him, wiggling her fingers with an expectant grin. A tiny glass bottle sat between them, the liquid inside an obnoxiously bright green that seemed to glow even in the dim candlelight of their living room.
“Come on,” she says, bouncing slightly where she sits. “You’re a precision guy. Alchemy, potions, enchantments—you’ve got steady hands. I trust you.”
Rythian gives her a flat look. “I don’t paint nails.”
“You do now.” She beams at him, entirely undeterred, before holding up her hands and flexing her fingers. “Look, it’s easy. Little brush, little polish, boom—perfect nails. You can handle a sword, but you can’t handle this?”
It’s a trap. He knows it is. But he was so weak to her whims.
He could say no. He should say no. But instead, he sighs, picks up the tiny bottle, and unscrews the cap. Immediately, the sharp, chemical scent of the polish invades his senses. He wrinkles his nose. “This smells awful.”
Zoey giggles. “Yeah, but look at the color! Isn’t it amazing?”
He tilts the bottle, watching the polish shift in the light. The green is unnatural, almost radioactive—if it were in a potion bottle, he’d label it dangerous and hide it on the highest shelf. Instead, it’s about to go on Zoey’s nails. He shakes his head. “You would pick the most absurd color imaginable.”
Zoey grins. “You love it.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he reaches for her hand, hesitating for only a second before taking it in his own. Her fingers are warm, calloused at the tips, and smaller than his in a way that makes him feel unreasonably aware of how careful he needs to be.
With the same precision he uses to mix potions, he dips the tiny brush into the polish and begins painting the first nail.
It’s… oddly satisfying.
The brush glides smoothly over the surface, leaving a vivid stripe of green in its wake. He expected the consistency to be strange, but it’s not unlike applying an alchemical mixture to an enchanted rune—careful, deliberate, controlled. He keeps his grip steady, ensuring there’s no stray polish outside the edges of her nail.
Zoey watches him with a kind of fascination, her usual energy subdued as she rests her chin on her free hand. The silence between them is comfortable, filled only with the distant crackle of the fire and the faint drip of water in the cavern beyond their hideout.
After a few moments, she speaks, voice softer than usual. “You’re really good at this.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised.” She smirks. “I half expected you to be terrible just so you could get out of it.”
“I don’t do things halfway,” he murmurs, moving on to her next nail.
She’s still watching him when she speaks again. “You’re really focused.”
“I have to be. If I mess up, you’ll never let me live it down.”
“Damn right,” she says, but her smirk is gentler now. “But still. It’s nice seeing you like this.”
He doesn’t ask what she means. He’s not sure he wants to know.
They fall into silence again, and he keeps working, finishing one hand and starting on the next. Her nails are short, practical, and he wonders if she’s ever done this before or if it’s just another one of her whims—another moment of brightness in a life that’s often too dark.
By the time he finishes, the polish is already starting to dry, a glossy sheen settling over her nails. He leans back, examining his work with a critical eye. “There. Done.”
Zoey lifts her hands, turning them this way and that, admiring the neon green in the candlelight. Then, she grins. “You’re actually good at this. Like, scary good.”
He smirks. “Told you.”
She flexes her fingers, then looks at him thoughtfully. “You know… I could paint yours next.”
He scoffs. “Not happening.”
“Black would really suit you.”
“Zoey.”
“Come on,” she wheedles, waving her freshly painted nails at him. “Think about it! Matching nails. Yours all dark and brooding, mine bright and chaotic—it’s poetic.”
He gives her a dry look. “It’s ridiculous.”
“But would you let me if I found black polish?”
“No.”
Zoey pouts, but there’s mischief in her eyes. “Fine, fine. But admit it—you liked this.”
He won’t. But as she beams at him, her nails drying under the flickering light, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’s right.