Bea

The day was torture.

Jason was a man of his word. He kept his hands to himself — no brushing past you in the kitchen, no pulling you into his lap when you walked by, no sleepy kisses when he woke up. But he compensated with everything else.

He’d walk past you shirtless after his shower, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down the defined lines of his torso. He’d “accidentally” stretch in front of you, arms above his head, shirt riding up to show the trail of hair leading down.

You lasted until noon.

Then you cracked.

You cornered him in the kitchen while he was making coffee, pressing yourself against his back, hands sliding around his waist.

“Not fair,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “You’re cheating.”

He chuckled, low and rough, but didn’t touch you back. “Rules are rules, princess. No touching. You’re the one breaking them.”

You huffed and pulled away, cheeks burning.

The rest of the day was a slow burn of tension.

He’d catch your eye across the room and smirk, knowing exactly what he was doing. You’d “accidentally” bend over in front of him while picking something up, watching his jaw clench. The air between you grew thicker with every passing hour.

By 10pm, you were both on the couch, pretending to watch a movie. The space between you felt electric.

Jason broke first.

He turned to you, eyes dark. “Fuck the bet.”

You barely had time to react before he had you pinned beneath him on the couch, mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was desperate, weeks of restraint exploding all at once. His hands were everywhere — sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he couldn’t get enough.

“Been dying to touch you all day,” he growled against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as he ground against you. He was already hard, pressing insistently between your thighs.

“Jason—”

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he rasped, kissing down your neck. “But I’ve been thinking about this since you made that stupid bet.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

He didn’t.

He stripped you efficiently but reverently, hands mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing you. When you were bare beneath him, he groaned, eyes dark with hunger.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmured, kissing down your body. “Been dying to taste you all day.”

He settled between your thighs, spreading you open with careful hands. The first slow lick drew a broken moan from you. Jason groaned against your core, the vibration making your hips jerk.

“Taste so good,” he rasped, tongue working you with devastating skill — long, slow strokes, then focused sucks on your clit. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right as he devoured you.

You came hard, crying out his name, thighs shaking around his head. He worked you through it, gentling his tongue until you were trembling and oversensitive.

Then he crawled back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. He rolled on a condom with quick hands, then settled between your thighs again.

“Still okay?” he asked, nudging at your entrance.

You wrapped your legs around his waist. “Need you. Now.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning as your walls clenched around him. When he bottomed out he stilled, forehead against yours, breathing ragged.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he whispered. “So tight. So warm. Missed this so much.”

He started moving — deep, steady thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot. One hand braced beside your head, the other gripped your hip, holding you in place as he fucked you with that perfect rhythm he always knew.

“Look at me,” he murmured. “Want to look at you when you cum around me.”

You did, eyes locked on his as the pleasure built again. His pace stayed deep and rhythmic, grinding against you on every thrust, one hand slipping between you to circle your clit with gentle pressure.

You came with a moan of his name, walls clenching around him. Jason followed right after, burying himself deep with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, holding himself up so he didn’t crush you, pressing soft, lazy kisses to your face.

When he finally pulled out and disposed of the condom, he came right back, pulling you into his arms on the couch. You curled against his chest, head over his heart, legs tangled with his.

“You okay?” he asked softly, stroking your back.

“Perfect,” you whispered, nuzzling closer. “Missed you.”

He kissed the top of your head, arms tightening around you. “Missed you more. Next time we make a deal like this, we better actually do it.” He chuckled slightly.

You laughed softly. “I doubt it. But deal.”

Jason used to wear the same three hoodies on rotation. Now his closet has actual outfits — nice jeans, button-downs you picked out, even a leather jacket that isn’t battle-worn. He wears them when he takes you on dates and looks ridiculously good doing it.

He lets you give him face masks. The first time you put a bright green one on him, he complained the whole time. Now he asks for the “blue one that smells like berries” when he’s had a rough patrol. He falls asleep with his head in your lap while it dries.

Bath bombs. He discovered them through you and is now lowkey obsessed. He’ll come home after a long night, run the water, and drop one in without saying anything. If you join him, he gets all soft and quiet, just holding you in the warm water.

He buys candles now. Not the cheap ones — the expensive ones that smell like books and rain and the cologne you like. He lights them when you’re over and pretends it’s “for the vibe” when really it’s because he wants the apartment to feel like home for you.

Jason used to cut his own hair with kitchen scissors. Now he lets you trim it in the bathroom, sitting on a stool while you carefully shape the white streak. He watches you in the mirror the whole time with the softest look on his face.

He wears your scrunchies. At first it was just to keep his hair out of his face while cooking. Now he has a drawer full of them in different colors you picked out. He’ll wear one on his wrist like a bracelet when he’s out in civilian clothes.

Self-care nights are sacred now. You introduced him to sheet masks, bath salts, and fluffy socks. He complains the whole time but always participates. The first time he asked for a “spa night” after a bad patrol, you almost cried from how proud you were.

He lets you dress him up for dates. You pick out button-downs and nice jeans and he wears them without argument. He even asks for your opinion now: “Does this look okay? I don’t want to embarrass you.”

Jason used to think cologne was “for rich assholes.” Now he has a signature scent you helped him choose — warm, woody, with a hint of spice. He wears it because he knows you like burying your face in his neck and breathing him in.

He takes baths with you. Not just showers. Full baths with bubbles and candles and him sitting behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. He’s quiet during those moments, just holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

On bad mental health days, he lets you pamper him. Face masks, head scratches, you reading to him while he lies with his head in your lap. He used to push you away when he felt like this. Now he leans into it because you make him feel safe enough to be soft.

He buys you matching pajamas. Soft, oversized ones in your favorite color. He pretends it’s “just practical” but the way he smiles when you wear them says otherwise.

Jason started journaling. Not the dramatic kind — just little notes about his day, things that made him happy, things he’s grateful for. Most of the pages end with your name. He keeps it hidden but leaves it open sometimes so you’ll see how much he loves you.

He lets you take care of him. When he comes home hurt, he doesn’t hide it anymore. He lets you patch him up, make him tea, hold him until the nightmares fade. He whispers “thank you” against your skin every time, like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

The biggest change? He tells you he loves you now. Not just in grand gestures or quiet moments. He says it in the kitchen while you’re cooking, in the shower when you’re washing his hair, in the middle of the night when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s still learning how to be soft, but he’s trying — for you.