If she can live with the beard, he can live with the lipstick. In the moment, he's all too happy to live with the lipstick; and he really is, he realizes to his own surprise as his mouth finds hers again. He's happy. Not for forever, not even in a way that's really going to stick just yet... but the last time he felt this way, this strongly, was so long ago that he almost doesn't even remember it now.

He's smiling when they break again -- like, actually, really smiling. It might look a little strange, the way it creases and warps his scars, but he also looks younger than he has since the flood took all the weight of memory off him. "Annie," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her cheek, her ear, her temple.