This store wasn’t too big, but it felt like a small world made just for me and her. Warm white lights shone down from the ceiling, reflecting off the glass shelves, between rows of lipsticks lined up like colored bullets. The scent of perfume and fine powder floated in the air, but the thing that caught my attention the most—was still her.

She stood in front of me, her oversized gray hoodie covering part of her hands as she held a bouquet of carnations. The petals swayed gently every time she moved, as if they were quietly listening in on every second we spent here. She picked up her first lipstick—a deep cherry red—and twisted the cap open with a soft click that was barely audible.

I stretched out my hand, palm facing down. She held it for a moment, tilting my wrist slightly. Her touch was light, careful, as if she were holding something fragile.

The tip of the lipstick brushed against the back of my hand. She drew a straight line, the color standing out vividly on my skin. She leaned in, eyes studying the result up close. From this angle, I could catch a faint trace of her scent—sweet, a bit floral, a hint of vanilla.

I glanced at the color, then turned to her. My lips curled into a small smile. “I think your lips would be seriously dangerous wearing this—for my heart.”

Her little hand paused. She glanced at me, her expression flat for half a second, then quickly looked away. But I didn’t need words. I knew she heard me. Her cheeks warmed, a soft blush blooming quietly under her skin.

She picked up a cotton pad, gently wiped off the first color, and reached for another lipstick. This time it was deeper—like brick red with a warm brown undertone. Her lips pursed slightly in concentration. The stroke on my hand was thicker this time, more certain.

I lowered my gaze. The color looked like a sunset—hot yet calm.

“Try wearing this at night,” I said softly, my voice a bit lower, close to her ear. “I swear, we won’t be going to bed anytime soon.”

Her body stiffened for a moment. She was still holding my hand, but her eyes refused to meet mine. She only let out a quiet laugh, as if trying to hold something back. Her small fingers pinched the side of my arm gently—a silent protest I happily accepted.

For the third time, she picked another color. This one was nude pink—so soft it nearly blended with her natural skin tone. She pulled my hand a little closer, touching the last clear space below my thumb. Her movements were slow, as if she didn’t want to get it wrong.

I watched the swipe of color, then looked at her lips. So soft. Then her face. Silent, but sweet. She looked so calm when she was focused, but I could see the subtle shifts in her expression—like the surface of water rippling with unspoken feelings.

“If you wear this one,” I murmured, my eyes still on her lips, "get ready for me to kiss you every five minutes.”

She finally turned toward me quickly. Her face changed in an instant. Her cheeks flushed, eyes widening slightly, and she took a tiny step back—not out of anger, but flustered beyond belief.

I chuckled softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before she could pull away. There were now three swatches on the back of my hand, each one carrying a trace of how I felt about her. But none of them felt as honest as the blush on her cheeks when I spoke.

Dear God… how is my sunshine this sweet? And strangely, every time she got shy, I felt like I was falling in love all over again—from the very beginning, and always with the same feeling.