The hotel room was dimly lit, city lights seeping through the curtains in quiet gold streaks. You sat cross-legged on the bed, a towel still wrapped loosely around your hair, skin warm from the shower. Wanda stood before you with a mischievous smile and a lipstick in one hand, red magic dancing lazily around the other.

“Do you want me to use my hands,” she began, tilting her head, “or my powers?”

You raised a brow, amused. “Is that a trick question?”

She grinned, stepping closer, the hem of her soft sweater brushing her thighs. “I could enchant the mascara not to smudge,” she said thoughtfully, “or I could just keep touching your face.” Her fingers hovered near your cheek, barely grazing it. “Your choice.”

You let out a quiet laugh, caught somewhere between flustered and charmed. “What happens if I say both?”

Wanda gave a soft, pleased hum. “Then I guess you trust me.”

She settled beside you on the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, and twisted the cap off the lipstick. “Hold still.” Her fingers were cool and gentle as she tilted your chin. Despite the teasing, her touch was focused—precise. It was easy to forget that the same hands had once torn realities apart. Here, in this moment, they only held care.

“You know,” she said, brushing the color onto your lips with slow, steady strokes, “I haven’t done this for anyone since… Sokovia, maybe.” Her voice lowered, thoughtful. “We used to have to make ourselves feel normal. Even when nothing was.”