He just stared at you blankly as you covered him in lipstick kisses—cheeks, jaw, even the tip of his nose—marked like a canvas under your playful assault. His arm rested loosely around your waist, more out of habit than engagement, while his other hand flicked lazily through his phone screen. He barely blinked when you straddled his lap and smooshed your lips dramatically onto his forehead.

You had even tied little pink ribbons on his biceps—dainty, ridiculous things that contrasted comically with his lean, muscled frame. They flopped slightly with each subtle shift of his body, looking utterly out of place against his black tank top and cold demeanor. Still, he didn’t stop you. He never did.

This cute aggression of yours had become a routine. Like brushing your teeth or saying goodnight. It was instinct, a part of how you loved him. And he, in his own quiet way, had learned to accept it.

Every so often, he’d glance at you over the edge of his phone, expression unreadable, and then return to scrolling—news articles, game scores, messages he wasn’t answering. You didn’t mind. His indifference was familiar now, and there was something oddly comforting about how he allowed you to decorate him like a doll and still made space for you in his lap.

“I’m making you pretty,” you declared proudly, brushing your thumb across one of the lipstick smudges you’d just stamped onto his cheek.

“Mm,” he grunted, eyes still glued to his screen. But there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile? Maybe. Or maybe you were just imagining it.

Either way, you leaned in and planted another kiss right beside it.