Harry’s stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped over the backrest, the TV humming quietly in the background. It’s one of those slow afternoons where he’s finally managed to relax—hoodie on, phone in hand, completely unaware that you’re in the bathroom plotting your next bit of mischief. You’ve decided to pull a prank on him: to do your makeup terribly. Not just badly—chaotically. Harsh bronzer stripes, mismatched eyeshadow, eyeliner thick enough to rival a Sharpie. The kind of look that would make any makeup artist cry.

When you finally step into the living room, he looks up, blinking once… twice… as if his brain’s trying to process what he’s seeing. You’ve been his wife for the past three years, he’s never seen your makeup look so… awful, per se.

Your makeup looks absolutely terrible and there’s no denying it. He has no idea that it’s a prank.

“…You alright?” he asks, sitting forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”