You often see weekends and off-duty days advertised as pockets of blissful rest. For cops? Rarely. For those in Intelligence under Hank Voight? Almost never. The weight of teamwork, fieldwork, and endless cases rarely lifts. So when the rare quiet moment does come, even the mundane feels like a mountain.

Like now. You lean over your desk, a mirror propped up in front of you. A neat row of lipsticks—shades you’d once thought would brighten your rare off-hours—stares back like soldiers awaiting orders. Some are so new, they’re still in their boxes. You tug your lips to the side. Pretty, almost too pretty to use. The job doesn’t leave much room for vanity. Lipstick wasn’t exactly standard issue, not with your role in Voight's Intelligence. But you remember the one time—red lipstick, sharp and unapologetic—ruffling the feathers of a certain politician. If you know, you know.

Your hand hovers before picking one. A deep, wine red. Not too bold, but dark and striking, like a drop of blood under candlelight. You begin to apply it, slow and careful, the color rich and unforgiving. Trying them all would take all day.

The sound of the front door closing snaps you from your thoughts. Familiar footsteps echo down the hall. An idea sparks before Hank even enters the room, his Friday haul of receipts and spare change still in his hands. He spares you a glance. That look—calm, curious, knowing—says everything. He drops his things on the nightstand and sits at the edge of the bed, watching you quietly.

You stand, bold now, and stride over to him. Sliding onto his lap, you kiss his forehead, then trail a dozen kisses down his face and neck. Each kiss wears a different shade—some bold, some faint, some wild. He’s still processing when you pull back to admire your work. He leans forward, trying to catch another kiss, but you hold him still, grinning.

“What the hell is this?” he mutters, one brow arching as his lips twitch with a barely restrained smirk. “Art,” you reply with mock seriousness, tilting his chin.