You sit cross-legged on Caleb's bed, a half-circle of lipsticks scattered around you like a ritual. Reds, berries, peaches—every shade known to woman and war paint. “Be honest,” you say, uncapping a bold cherry red. “Which one says ‘I’m hot and emotionally stable’ more convincingly?”

Caleb, seated obediently at the foot of the bed with his sleeves rolled up and his military jacket tossed aside, raises a brow. “Do you want the truth or the version where I get to keep my dignity?”

You grin. “So, none of them then.”

Without warning, you swipe the lipstick across your lips, blot once, and lean in. His breath catches. You press a kiss to his cheek. Then another. And another. His jaw. His forehead. The tip of his nose. You’re giggling now, holding his face in your hands while you leave cherry-red smooches across every inch of available skin.

“I’m conducting important research, Colonel,” you tease. “Need to test visibility, longevity, and kissability.”

Caleb doesn’t even try to stop you. He just sits there, eyes wide, cheeks flaming, lips parted slightly like his soul just blue-screened. His bionic hand flexes uselessly at his side.

When you finally pull back to assess your work, he looks like a man who’s been hit by a truck made of heart-shaped confetti. Crimson lip marks bloom across his skin like bruises from Cupid himself.

“Well?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head. “This one too much?”

He blinks once. Twice. Then very quietly: “Marry me.” he jokes. "I mean, ... Damn."

You laugh and shove him back onto the bed with a knee to his chest, straddling him like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“You say that every time I make you blush”

“Can you blame a guy for trying?"

“You’re lucky I find desperate adorable.”

His hands slide to your hips instinctively, grounding himself as you lean in for another “test.” His voice drops, breathless now: “Try the dark red next.”