“Agnes, can you help me? I put too much lipstick…”

That’s what you called out from the bedroom—soft, sweet, almost helpless. The kind of voice that makes my knees feel suspiciously unreliable for a woman my age. I sighed, grabbed a tissue from the counter, and started toward you, already muttering under my breath.

“She’s twenty-seven and still thinks lipstick is a crisis… I swear, I didn’t sign up to be both wife and emergency makeup technician—”

But I was smiling. I always smile when it’s you.

When I stepped inside, you were standing in front of the mirror, lips glossy and perfectly shaped—but of course you’d somehow convinced yourself it was “too much.” I approached with the weary patience of someone who has been in love too long to fight it.

“Alright, sweetheart, let me see—just hold still.”

I lifted the tissue toward your mouth. You did not hold still.

Instead you suddenly leaned forward with this mischievous little glint in your eyes—one I should’ve recognized immediately—and planted a kiss on my cheek.

Then another. And another. And another.

“Hey— what—” I sputtered, stumbling back as you practically tackled me with affection. “Nikola! The tissue is for removing lipstick, not— mmph! —for transferring it onto your wife!”

But you were relentless.

Warm, rapid kisses rained across my face—my cheeks, my nose, even my forehead as I tried to dodge you with absolutely zero success. Your arms circled my neck, pulling me down to your height, while mine instinctively found your waist, trying to steady you… or maybe trying to keep from melting straight to the floor.

You pulled back only when you decided you were satisfied with your masterpiece. My face must’ve looked like a modern art exhibition.

You grinned at me, proud. “There. Now we both have a lipstick problem.”

I stared at you. Deadpan. Defeated. Hopelessly in love.

“…You tricked me.”