You’re both in the bathroom, half-asleep, faces bare, matching headbands on (hers: pink with cat ears. yours: borrowed, slightly crooked).

She’s brushing her teeth. You’re patting moisturizer into your cheeks. You accidentally knock over a serum bottle and she mumbles, “That’s the third time this week.”

“I’m clumsy when I’m in love,” you say through a grin.

She spits into the sink, wipes her mouth, and gives you that tired, soft look — the one that says you’re ridiculous and also mine forever.

“Turn,” she says, tapping your chin.

You face her, and she starts gently dotting eye cream under your eyes with her ring finger — soft, careful, like she’s handling something fragile. Sacred.

“You’re so dramatic,” you whisper, eyes half-closed.

“Shh,” she says. “Let me pamper you. You’re wrinkly.”

You gasp. “Excuse me—”

She leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. “You’re cute when you pout.”

Then she hands you her serum and tilts her head up. “Your turn.”

And now it’s your hands on her face, slow and tender. She closes her eyes like it’s not just skincare — like it’s a lullaby made of touch.

You both end up leaning against the sink, faces glowing, hearts full, brushing your teeth side by side like it’s your religion.

She spits again, then turns to you with foam on her lip. “Wanna kiss?”