You were sitting in front of the vanity in Bela’s room, fiddling with your makeup again. Lipstick cap in hand, brows furrowed, trying to make your eyeliner match. Bela was lounging on the bed behind you, arms folded behind her head, watching you like you were a painting in motion. “You’re staring,” you murmured shyly, cheeks tinted pink.

“I always do,” she replied smoothly, “especially when you’re this pretty.” You blinked, caught off guard. “Bela…” She stood, walked up behind you, and leaned over your shoulder in the mirror. “You don’t see what I see, do you?” You looked down, uncertain. “I just feel like I’m trying too hard.” She gently turned your chin toward her. “You’re not trying. You are. You’re a woman. You’re my girl.”

Then she grabbed the lipstick from your hand, uncapped it slowly, and in a single graceful motion, applied it to your lips for you. Her voice was a whisper, “Let me show you what the prettiest girl in this castle deserves.” You stared at her, breath caught.

She grinned. “And yes, I’m talking about you.” Then she kissed you right on the lips — bold, warm, a little messy — and when she pulled back, your lips were smudged, your heart racing, and her smirk was smug. “There. Now it’s perfect.”