Saturday.
Nuveska closed today — my one clear day, no rush of Saturday walk-ins, no bell going off every ten minutes.
I started on the bathroom first, the way I always do. Grout brush, mirror spray, the smell of vinegar cutting through steam left over from someone's shower the night before.
Wiping down the mirror, I stopped.
Not on purpose. My own face just happened to be there mid-swipe, no filter, no flattering light, just the bathroom bulb we keep meaning to replace.
I looked... brighter. I stood there longer than the cleaning required, tilting my chin the way you do when you're checking for something and not sure what.
The LumiSpa was still sitting on its charger from the morning. I picked it up before I'd properly decided to, cleanser already half-pumped into my palm.
Two minutes, standing in a half-cleaned bathroom, sponge still in my other hand.
I don't know why it felt different doing it then, in the middle of a Saturday, instead of last thing before bed. Maybe because nobody was rushing me. Maybe because for once I actually paid attention to what I was doing instead of running it on autopilot.
By late afternoon the whole house smelled like garlic and rosemary. I'd picked up a rack of lamb from the butcher on Forest Road that morning, more out of habit than plan — something about a house that's about to get loud with exam stress needing one proper meal in it first.
"Dinner," I called up the stairs. "Come eat before it gets cold."
Her exam block starts Monday. HSC, properly, no more countdown talk — it's just here now. I wanted one evening before all that where nobody mentioned a syllabus.
She came down in trackpants, hair still damp, and sat without being told twice.
Somewhere between the lamb and the rice, I found myself telling her about the woman who'd stopped me at the till last week — asked what I'd been using on my skin, like I was the one who'd know something.
I told her the truth. That I still don't quite know what to do with being asked, instead of asking.
She listened properly, fork paused halfway.
"You do look different lately," she said, not making a thing of it. Then, tilting her head, "Wait — look at me for a sec."
I looked.
The little cluster of bumps that used to sit right at her hairline, the ones she'd angle her fringe over without saying anything about, weren't there.
"Have you actually been doing the cleanser every night?" I asked.
"Yeah. Since like, last Saturday." She shrugged, like it wasn't worth mentioning. "The two-minute thing. It's actually kind of nice, not gonna lie. Like a mini massage."
I sat there a second, lamb going cold on my fork, doing the maths. A week. Just over a week, and there it was, plain as anything under the kitchen light.
I wanted to say something bigger about it. I didn't.
"Good," was all I managed. "Keep going."
She went back to her plate. I went back to mine, still turning it over — not the skin exactly, just the strangeness of handing someone the same two minutes and watching them make it theirs.
Outside, someone's sprinkler clicked on early for the evening. Monday was three sleeps away.
I didn't bring that up either.