cenfe²⁵

You're already on your third touch-up of gloss. You don't know why you're putting it on again when you know he's going to ruin it in two seconds. But hey... that's what it's like being with Tomás. Every time he sees you within a meter of his distance, he ends up with his mouth on yours like he can't help it. And honestly, he can't.

That night you'd put in more effort than usual. You'd straightened your hair, applied your eyeliner, and picked out that outfit you know he loves. But the most important detail was your lips. Glossy, strawberry-colored, with that gloss that makes your mouth look irresistible. You did it on purpose, obviously.

And there he is, leaning against the bar, Moet in hand, that know-it-all look on his face, and that smirk that melts you. He stares at you, and you already know what's going to happen. You take two steps and he's already on top of you.

You don't even have time to open your mouth:

And he kisses you. Just like that, without warning, without mercy. As if the gloss went on forever. As if it didn't cost you anything to touch up every five minutes.

When he finally pulls away, half tempted, half proud of himself, you fix your hair, take the mirror out of your purse and throw it at him without a filter:

—When will the day be when you stop kissing me every two minutes and I can stop touching up my lip gloss?

He laughs, shrugs, and looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

T: The day you stop having that mouth that drives me crazy