The bathroom is marble and mirror, gold-rimmed and echoey. You lean into the counter, applying a fresh coat of gloss. Plump. Shiny. The color he picked. The one he said "looks like sin on you."

You press your lips together, check the angle of your necklace, and adjust your dress strap. Behind you — the door creaks open.

You glance up, expecting a stranger.

But it’s him.

Xavier. One hand still on the door. Suit slightly undone. Tie loosened just enough to look dangerous.

“This is the women’s—”

“It’s empty,” he cuts in. Then locks the door behind him.

You don’t move. Just stare in the mirror as he steps closer, slow, eyes flicking from your lips to the gloss in your hand.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs.

Your heart stumbles. “Did I?”

He slides a finger under your chin, tilts your face to his.

“Right… there.” He taps the corner of your mouth, then lets his hand linger.

You raise a brow. “Fix it for me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one smooth move, he kisses you — slow at first, just the press of lips. But then? His hands grip the sink behind you, pinning you in, and his mouth deepens the kiss like he’s been starving for it all night.

Your gloss is ruined in seconds.

Smeared on your mouth. On his. On the curve of his neck where you pull him closer.

"We’re supposed to be at dinner,” you whisper between kisses.

“And you’re out here,” he growls, “looking like that.”

You gasp softly as he nips at your bottom lip.

“Do you know what that lip gloss does to me?”

“I do now.”

You laugh. He kisses it right off your tongue.