“I don’t fuckin’ like this…” Abby grumbles, her lips curling into a tight frown as you dust a soft peach blush across her sharp cheekbones. Her blue eyes squint when the bristles of the brush graze her lashes, and she shifts uncomfortably beneath your touch, jaw clenching.

“Babe, don’t…” she groans, voice low with protest as she pushes your hand away with a firm shove. “I don’t want this on.”

But she doesn’t leave.

She doesn’t pull away completely or stalk off like she would if anyone else tried something like this. Instead, she sits there, tense but rooted in place, letting you hold her face with gentle hands. Abby is a soldier, a WLF warrior—battle-hardened, fierce, built for war. She isn’t supposed to like things like this. Softness. Color. Beauty.

And yet, she stays still as you tilt her chin, as if resigned to the fact that she could never actually say no to you. The warmth of your fingers trails over her skin, and despite her gruff exterior, you can tell she’s relenting, little by little.

“See?” you murmur, brushing over the other cheek with the same delicate touch. “It’s not so bad.”

Abby huffs, her ears tinged pink. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You grin, leaning in just enough to press a quick kiss to her nose. “I know.”