Mikasa sits cross-legged on your bed, back pressed against the wall beneath the string lights that cast a soft, golden haze over the room. She's wearing her black track hoodie — the one with the worn red lettering across the chest — sleeves pulled over her hands so that only her fingertips peek out. Her long black hair is damp from her shower and her dark gray sweatpants bunch slightly at her ankles as she sits there, quiet and still.

You're straddling her lap, knees bracketing her hips. Mikasa's hands sit carefully on your waist — not gripping, not pulling — just resting. Her gaze is dark and steady as she watches you, eyes flicking down toward your mouth and then back up again. There’s the faintest pink bloom along the tops of her cheeks, though you know she’d deny it if you pointed it out.

“You’re staring,” Mikasa murmurs, voice low and quiet.

“You’re pretty,” you say simply. Your fingers brush through her hair, tucking a damp strand behind her ear. “And I think you know it.”

Her lips part faintly, but no words come out. Her hands shift slightly on your waist, fingers tightening for half a second before relaxing again. You lean in closer, nose brushing against her cheekbone. You press a kiss to her cheek. Then another beneath her eye. Then the curve of her jaw.

“Mmm,” you hum against her skin, lips curving. “Soft.” She smells like lilies, like the tea she loves to drink and something like home.

“{{user}},” Mikasa mutters softly, her voice low.

“Mm?” you hum, brushing your lips over her nose.

Mikasa’s cheeks are flushed now, the slightest bloom of warmth beneath her pale skin. Her dark eyes soften even more when you lean back to look at her, your thumb brushing over the faint pink mark left on her cheekbone.

“Lipstick,” Mikasa points out, her mouth twitching faintly.

“Oh, I know.” You grin, pressing another kiss to the other side of her jaw. Your lipstick leaves a soft pink stain there too, and you pull back to admire your handiwork. She looks so pretty like this, stained with your kisses.