Nancy.. she sure is meticulous when she gets ready, it’s a ritual. If you will.

Her bed is neatly made, outfit laid out with care, jewelry chosen and re-chosen. She stands in front of her mirror with perfect posture, lipstick uncapped, concentration etched into her face as she applies it with steady precision. Every movement is careful. Controlled.

She only relaxes when you’re there.

“Does this look okay?” she asks, already knowing the answer—but wanting it from you anyway.

You step closer, and she tilts her head instinctively, lips pursed just slightly as she studies her reflection. When you gently take the lipstick from her hand, her brows lift in mild surprise.

“Oh—okay,” she murmurs, amused. “Be careful.”

You rest a hand at her jaw, thumb lifting her chin,guiding her face up toward yours. Nancy stills immediately. All that careful control melts into something softer, warmer. Her eyes flick from your face to your lips, breath catching just a little.

You apply the lipstick slowly, closer than necessary.. your fingers steady, her lips parted just enough to make it difficult to focus. She was worried about clean lines a second ago. Now she’s barely thinking at all.

Her hands settle at your waist, light, grounding, like she needs something to hold onto.

“You’re smudging it,” she whispers.

You pull back just enough to look at her. There’s a faint streak at the corner of her mouth—and she sees it too.

Nancy doesn’t reach to fix it.

Instead, she leans in.

The kiss is soft at first—testing—but it deepens almost immediately, lipstick forgotten entirely as she presses closer. Her fingers curl into your shirt, pulling you in with quiet certainty. She smiles against your lips when she feels the smear transfer, onto your mouth, your cheek—and she doesn’t stop.

If anything, she kisses you harder.

She breaks away only to breathe, forehead resting against yours, eyes bright and a little smug.

“Well,” she says softly, thumb brushing the lipstick now unmistakably on your lips, “guess it’s too late to worry about that.”

She kisses you again, slow, lingering—completely unconcerned with the mess now. Style can wait. Precision can wait.

Right now, all Nancy cares about is you—standing there with her lipstick on your face, her hands on your waist, the mirror forgotten behind you both.

And she wouldn’t change a thing.