The red stain was obvious, smudged at the corner of her mouth, a faint streak across her jaw where his kiss had wandered. He’d noticed it first, his thumb brushing against it, and she’d smiled, not bothering to wipe it away. “Messy,” he said, but there was no criticism in it—just wonder.
But messy didn’t mean unhinged. Her movements were still precise, deliberate: the slow tilt of her head when she kissed him, the firm press of her palm against his chest when she wanted him to pause, the steady gaze that never wavered, even when her breath hitched. The smudged lipstick was a mask, a trick of the eye—making him think she’d lost herself, when really she was the one steering the ship.
He’d tried to fluster her, once, with a kiss that wandered, a touch that lingered, but she’d just laughed, that low, throaty sound, and shifted the dynamic back to her terms. “Nice try,” she’d murmured, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just hard enough to remind him who was in charge. The lipstick smudged more, but her smile stayed sharp, her control unbroken.
Later, as she dabbed at the stain with a tissue, her movements calm and methodical, he watched, realizing the smudge was part of the act. A little chaos to make the control feel more real, more earned. She didn’t need perfection to be powerful. Sometimes, a little mess was just proof she was human—even if she never let it make her weak.