lover girl

If you're being honest, you didn't really agree to be his sugar baby because you wanted anything specific. For yourself, that is.

All you do is sit across from him at that low-tiered dining room table, in a place far more classy in ambience than you ever believed possible. With sterling clear champagne flutes that bear tranaprent bubbly.

They are immaculately perfect enough that the wide-eyed consternation you feel can be seen reflected perfectly back. You're not one for drinking—the meniscus of your libation has remained exactly the same.

You suppose that Mr. Wayne isn't either: his drink remains entirely untouched, his gaze riveted upon you. How very like the flotsam that collects on the water, foaming over in deep, precarious iridescent blue; his eyes bore into you.

It is as if they are trying to reclaim every detail of you to commemorated memory. His hands, broad and rough-knuckled—a fact that surprises you, to see this rich Gothamite be no stranger to hard work—fan straight on the top of the table.

Whereas yours are bunched on the joint of your knees under the fine linen tablecloth, palms sweating as you approach this contract together with him.

"Why are you interested in this, Mr. Wayne?" You ask, trying to affect your voice with the confidence that you do in front of your students. The self-assuredness you shore up for them is apparently depleted here, before this man who has so much hanging in the balance for you.

"I was interested when you chose my services. And for the reason you gave," He says.

"Most people who do this kind of thing aren't so—"—At this, his eyes flash a radiant intensity over the rim of his water goblet—"—Altruistic with that they want this for."

You make a pursed smile, trying to maintain self-composure in marked manner. Trying to make yourself not appear to be roiling in the nervousness that is coursing over you.

"I don't mind. I've worked other jobs to make ends meet as a teacher before." You reply with the casual maintenance of cadence that you hope shows. "I don't mind doing this, either."

"Most sugar babies don't do it to buy pencils and notebooks for their students," Mr. Wayne replies, his brow cocking up in trite disbelief. "They usually go a little more…"

He pauses for lack of a better word, though you can certainly supply the concepts yourself—of designer bags, of expensive cars, of exotic trips. Sure, they sound nice, but you're already shaking your head in disagreement with him.

"Well, maybe I can buy the nice spiral-bound ones I've been eyeing over in the department store," You return, allowing your smile to become more genuine in quality.

As Bruce permits himself a swallow before settling down the glass. It allows you one more moment to appraise the span of his hand. To wonder how it would feel it draped over your body in terms of goods and services exchanged.

"So I'm your DonorsChoose if we enter this together?" Bruce asks dryly. This summons an unexpected laugh from you in off-kilter rhythm—you didn't think he'd have a sense of humor about this.

"Absolutely you will be." You respond. A little more like yourself at the extension of familiarity, you dare out into the unknown. "But—I suppose you'll be reaping some of the benefits too."

You can swear that the sear of his eyes is practically incendiary when you say that. You clench your legs together to stem the flare of heat that rides up your body with stunning alacrity, trying to ignore the way that his knuckles tighten over the tabletop.

The main course hasn't even made its arrival yet—and yet he bears a kind of starvation that can't be quelled by food. You figure that now is as good as any time to make your advancement into his territory.

"Do you—"—You hate yourself for how weak your voice sounds in this moment—"—Are you interested in pursuing this with me?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Mr. Wayne says with such immediacy that you almost have to blink in surprise, manually restart the pacing of your heart to ensure that it doesn't stop abruptly. Dissociate from the plume of heat ascending to zenith in the tightening of your legs, your knees grinding against each other.

His hand inches closer to yours, so very close to the meridian where he skirts the boundaries of your space.

But he does not break it. After all, nothing has been set in stone yet.

"I am very interested in pursuing this with you," He continues; when he says your name, it's with such fluid ease as if he has vocalized it many times before. A flush spreads under your skin as you realize that he will, should if this relationship commences as is to be expected.

"But you should know—"—And his voice is genial but his eyes tell you everything that you need to know. That he wants you.

Your fingers brush against his and the electric shock that bolts up you isn't imagined. You know it's mutual. He continues to speak.

"—I won't be broken off with easily." He asserts, and his fingers are already yawning over yours, staking possessive claim. He is a man of economical words, but extravagant bearings—he means what he says.

"If you're not certain about this," He says, his thumb brushing over the ridges of your knuckles with such practiced intimacy, "Then you need to let me know now. And we can walk away from this with no hard feelings."

For some reason, you don't entirely buy into this declaration that he makes. But you are also steadfast in your purpose for this night.

"I know what I want." You state with the most surety that you've been able to muster this entire night. "And I want to do this with you, Mr. Wayne."

He only allows the span of a fleeting second to pass tautly between the two of you, to admire the way that your hands look enfolded together. And then those glass-blue eyes dart back up to you.

"If we're going to do this," his smile crooks in a rather roguish way, "Then you're going to have to call me Bruce."

It feels odd, awkward for you to do this. But you try your best. "Okay, Bruce."

"And," He says, "We may as well get started with seeing how compatible we are."

Something percolates anxiously in the pit of your stomach as you consider the implications of this statement. But the smile that he provides you is disarming.

He leans in, and as though pulled by gravitational tether—you move in towards him.

"I mean with a kiss." He offers you in husked whisper, chuckling at the way that relief plainly breaks on your face.

"Oh." You say, and you're certain that it's written in the articulation of your voice—but he doesn't hold it against you. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," He says, his hand already rising to find the span of your jaw. Brushing against you as he encourages you closer to the heat of his mouth. There's only a brief pause on your end as you hesitate.

You've never kissed a man before in such hurried fashion, a sharp exhale that is huffed against the terrain of his lips. His eyes are focused upon yours, that are appraising the real estate of his face to look at the handsome architecture of your—sugar daddy.

And then his mouth is on yours. There's something warm and sweet that sparks in the structure of your ribs, in the pull of your chest. It makes you cycle quick inhale as his mouth moves against you for more—and you reward him with it.

It's so short. It's a chaste, respectful one for such a lurid engagement that the two of you are proceeding into. When he leans back to look at you, you know that he is sated—but he is not satisfied. And surprisingly, neither are you. You don't realize until later that you've yet to let go of his hand, nor has he retreated tactile claim on your face.

"I—want to kiss you again." You say in halting means, unsure that it's your right to ask of it. "Can I?"

"Seems like we're on the same page," Bruce grins, and urges you towards him to close the distance once more.

Surprisingly, for a man who you've seen go through so many different paramours on so many different tabloids, Bruce is a gentle lover. He has the courtesy to take you to one of the penthouse apartments connected to the restaurant for exclusive patrons only. He offers you another opportunity for libation that you decline politely.

And claims your mouth with a kiss so intense that if it weren't for the fact that his hands were wrapped about the width of your body in implacable manner, you might stumble in your footing.

Either way, you have to hold to the finely starched folds of his suit jacket, breathe deeply as his tongue presses against the seam of your mouth. As it explores the nuance of your own, tasting the way your moan sighs into him.

His hands drape down your back, taking care to peel you from the best clothes that you could scrounge up for the occasion.

They become threadbare piles of fabric abandoned to the ground as he takes care to strip you of them. He soothes away the shivers that wrack up your body as you are left bare and exposed to him.

"Will we—"—You look up at him, certain that the uncertainty is written in your face as he regards you. "Do you want to fuck me?"

He smiles, his gaze ravenous as he takes in all of the details of your skin. As he runs a hand all-but-carnivorous in the way that his fingers explore the small of your back, summoning goosebumps that trail in aftershock after him.

"Not tonight." He says, and allows himself opportunity to kiss you again—something that you freely give him. Something sours in worry within you as he says that, but it evaporates with his following statement.

"Tonight," Bruce promises, "I just want to taste you."

You've never been one to be carried. But you suppose for the Prince of Gotham, you'll make an exception, as he takes you in the muscular expanse of his arms and settles you down on the bed.

As he descends between your legs that dangle over the far-reaching edge. As his breath ghosts over your heat that seems to spike in nascent peak, makes your legs twitch in nervous, jittery manner.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Bruce orders you in low, corrugated note. The fact that you would have autonomy in the parameters of this relationship stymies you enough to prevent a response. And then his tongue inches in excruciatingly slow, slick motion over your clit.

You don't expect the moan, the protracted shiver, the way that your thighs tremble at the touch. He is already taking care to lope your legs over the plateau of his shoulders. Your fingers clench into the sheets as another rasping lick makes your fingers curl tighter.

"No," Bruce pauses the euphoric torment on you, murmuring the words into you, "Put your hands on me."

His eyes stare up at you from between your legs—it's such a profane, obscene sight—but the command is undeniable. Already, you're reaching to entwine them in his perfectly mussed coif of hair.

"Good," is all that Bruce says before his mouth descends upon you again, and he draws you against his tongue once more. You don't object as a jolt of pleasure darts up your body again, your toes curling at the wet, lewd noises that are elapsing from the work of his mouth. All you can do is close your eyes—and hold on for dear life.

You don't know how many times you come that night—you just know that Bruce Wayne is very, very talented with his mouth. That you are a sweaty, shaking mess in need of the in-suite shower that he lets you have run of the roost over.

And, when you emerge from the gusting steam of the restroom in bathrobe provided by staff—he is already readying to go. As though nothing ever occurred.

You know the functionality of this relationship. You know the means that the two of you must operate in. But to see him re-adjust his tie in the mirror—though you smile at the lingering look he gives you—you cannot help but admit that you are disappointed.

But these are inside thoughts that must remain internal.

So, all that you say instead is, "Are you leaving?"

"The suite is yours tonight." Bruce informs you. "I'll be doing some business at Wayne Tech late."

You think of that vaulted tower that looms high in the sky that he will depart to. And all you can do is nod as you fold your hands in front of each other, admiring the velvet feel of the soft robe that is your only defense.

He comes close, with bearings of someone who has something to say. His eyes hold yours in resolute manner, his hand already reaching in familiar way for the apple of your chin to bid him look up to you.

"I'll call you soon," He promises. "Have a good night."

When he kisses you goodbye, you can swear that the gesture feels far more than mere transaction. But you don't allow yourself to voice these thoughts. All you do is watch him go, and tumble into the ruined sheets that the two of you spent the past few hours introducing yourselves upon.

When you wake up, Bruce Wayne has fully paid your Classroom Fundraiser seven times over. You look at the screenshot and then the text paired with it that says Use the extra however you want.

In the privacy of the suite by yourself, you allow the indecipherable emotions to crest over you. Finally, the smile you've kept hidden reveals itself.

The two of you fall into very amiable fashion. He invites you over to some lavish location where you are awed by the scenery, impressed by the food—and learn one indisputable truth.

Bruce Wayne is generous both in bed and out of it.

The second time the two of you rendezvous, you are treated to veal and red-bodied pinot noir with music quartet playing in the background. Then, Bruce takes you to the hotel across the street and spreads you open so that he can have dessert.

But this time, he elects to be more hands-on.

When his fingers curl into you, paired with the lave of his tongue at your clit, it's all you can do but to arc your head back into the sheets and cry out his name. To let him pump those wide fingers into you, summoning such indecent noises from you as you beg and whimper for more.

As he watches the way that you react to the pressure of him as he hits the back, and devours the way you tremble as you come. As he dares the stretch of his body over you, fully clothed—and kisses you in carnivorous way, allowing you to taste your orgasm on your soft palate.

The next day, Bruce pays for three field trips that are provided to your school by mysterious anonymous sponsor. And you try to ignore the buoyancy that glides over you when you receive a message on your phone during your prep period. Graded book reports fall momentarily by the wayside with that familiar chime that summons you in Pavlovian designs.

I want to see you again tonight. Is all that comes from your contact aptly titled Bruce.

And so you send back a simple, Where to?

Your curiosity is rewarded when you arrive at stately Wayne Manor in driven escort provided by stiff-upper-lipped butler. Said butler opens the car door for you and becomes informative docent. He is very knowledgable as walks you down the boulevard to the sprawling mansion with its well-maintained topiaries and perfect cobblestone path.

The interior is no less breathtaking albeit Gothic in nature, with its high-arching ceilings, its cathedral-style stained-glass windows. With its lush carpetry and gilded, wall-to-wall private portraiture—many which feature a dark-haired man who you have become very familiar with as of late.

"In here," the Butler guides you to a door from which warm light bleeds through in blushing, arterial manner. "The food is ready for your arrival."

In here is rather drab understatement for the decadent undertaking that has been made for your arrival. The dining room already stuns without the fine trimmings to the long-yawning dining table, the formidable feast, the crackling fireplace. But you can only focus on the man who rises from patient seating to cross the heady distance to you.

When he says your name, it is with such undercurrent that you cannot ignore the giddiness that hums through you. And when he kisses you, you cannot deny the strident blaze of emotion that consumes you. So you kiss him back, allowing him to linger around the territory of your mouth with the talent that his tongue has demonstrated before.

When he pulls away, it is with clear regret that he could not extend the kiss for longer. But the contrition is short-lived and replaced with ardency.

"I'm glad that you could come," He says, and offers his arm in gentlemanly way for you to crook yours around him. Though the feast extends from table end to table end, there are two chairs seated side-by-side so that the two of you may dine together.

You wonder if this was the butler's discrepancy or Bruce's design. But he is retreating the chair across the fine marbled tile for you to sit. So you let him do so, and join you at a side that is beginning to feel incomplete without him.

But this introspection remains, as always, unvoiced.

"Your home is beautiful," You reply with utmost sincerity, affording yourself another glimpse of the grandeur that surrounds you both. Bruce takes the fawning compliment in stride. It is clear through the taut wiring of his body that he has other matters on mind.

"What did you want to bring me here for?" You ask, and feel brave enough to dare out, "Other than the obvious."

He allows wicked trace of smile to curve the trajectory of those full lips. "That'll be later. Right now—I wanted to ask something of you."

"What's that?" You ask, allowing bemusement to guise the fear that you already feel brimming in the forefront of your mind. That you are yesterday's news—that this relationship has run its course.

"I want," Bruce says, his hand making wide swathe over yours, "Exclusivity."

You allow the staccato stutter of your heart to right itself. Permit yourself homoestatic breath for regulation. Will yourself to hold his hand back.

"Exclusivity?"

"I know our relationship is more transactional than most," Bruce informs you of this truth, "But I want it to be the only relationship you have."

"Meaning?" You ask—without guile, without coyness. Simple inquiry—something grows liquid and affectionate—and proprietary in the cant of his gaze. This is supplemented by the way that his knuckles tighten to white protrusion against the landscape of his skin. The way that his jaw sets in affirmation.

"I'm the only one that has you," Bruce says, "Emotionally, or physically. No other boyfriends."

The second addendum should draw you short—it should give you pause, that your sugar daddy is exacting such terms. But that would deny the fact that you're overwhelmed by burgeoning delight that blossoms from inside-out.

"Okay," Is all that you say without hesitation, covering your other hand over his. Watching the way that his nostrils flare at the gesture, his shoulders broaden in masculine design. The way his eyes turn dark and mercurial at once.

"I can do that," You inform him with a smile. This potentially betrays the joy that you feel. But you are presented with no further chance to voice anything else, for Bruce is coaxing you into the spread of his arms.

The two of you don't do a lot of eating that night—or at least, you don't. Bruce takes his fill between your legs, pressing you into the voluminous rug that expands before the fireplace. It's on the cusp of your first orgasm, though, that you plead alternative to this arrangement.

"Please," You beg as another torturous wave of pleasure washes over you, "I want you."

His eyes fixate upon you, the fire illuminating him in deep-ambered, infernal hues. He is angelic and terrible at once, the only thing betraying his composure the wild arc of his stare upon your naked body.

"Please fuck me," you beg, though this is a broken plea made by the way that his fingers have your back arching into the air. "Please, Bruce."

You watch the quick assessment of you through the haze of your euphoria, before a threshold is crossed and decision is made. His hand ascends to the tortoise-shell button that unites his collar, and begins to undo it, revealing himself to you.

You didn't expect the scars—fading, fresh, old, new—that litter the acreage of his ribs, the flat, toned stomach. That divot throughout the plateau of his chest. You're certain that the back parallels the rest, white-lined and crescent, jagged, serrated—all-encompassing.

You only feel your eyes widen as you take him in, as you sit up to find your footing on the heel of your hands. As he releases you to lick the exertion of your near-orgasm on the flat of his tongue.

"I didn't want to scare you off the first night," He informs you in husky intonation when he has sated himself. He shoulders himself out of his shirt to reveal arms that are in similar exhibition to what you have seen.

"I—"—You find yourself stymied for words and settle upon—"—Do they hurt?"

"Not all of them." He says—it's clear that one implicit boundary is to not inquire the source of them. You know better than to cross it. "Some days are better than others."

"Which one hurts right now?" You ask him. It is as if you are drawn into his heavenly orbit. Made to crawl in willing subjugation on hands and knees to him across the rug that splays under your tread.

He watches you with what you might classify as wry amusement, before he makes another decision to determine the night's evolution.

"This one," He whispers, pointing to an X that is demarcated on his left pectoral, near the bifurcation of his sternum. The muscle is tacky to the touch with the roaring fire beside you both. But it is warm and pulses with the beat of his heart as you press your mouth to it in a kiss.

As you feel the tense breath that circulates through his body at your gesture. You hold onto the span of his thighs to support yourself as you press additional kiss for good measure. Then, you spare glance to levy up his way through the span of your lashes.

"Where else, Bruce?" You ask. He is less reticent this time as he points to the ridge of his collarbone where ruddy scar makes notch down the bone. You climb the columns of his arms for support, allowing his hands to grasp the small of your back to guide you.

You press your mouth to him, feeling the way that he draws still, though he is radiant with the heat of life. His hold becomes far more covetous, the pads of his fingers sinking tightly into you. Enough to make you gasp against the nuance of his skin.

You are seated on his lap now, held in the caging of his arms as you pull back. "Where else, Bruce?"

He claims your mouth with a kiss that speaks where the pain has silenced all else. Though his mouth, his desire is animal in nature, he is gentle as he leads you back down to the floor.

When he sinks his cock into you, you know you don't imagine his groan that is drawn rigid with need. Nor do you deny the moan of pleasure that escapes you as he spreads you further open, sucking a bruise into the vulnerable juncture of your neck.

The students can tell that you're happier, more cheerful—not that you weren't before, but kids are honest with their thoughts.

"You got a man?" One of your more audacious kids asks. "That's how my mom acts when she's got a new boyfriend."

"Turn to Chapter 4 on page 65," is all you say, though you ignore the furtive side-eyes and cheeky smiles they share.

Staff members notice, too. One of them pulls you aside during a PLC meeting with a question guised as another.

"Who's paying for these trips?" They ask, arching a knowing brow. "I know where you are on the pay scale."

"PTA fundraising has been pretty good this year," is all that you shoot back with cavalier ease.

You take care to voice this one night, when you and Bruce collapse on the panoramic backdrop of his bed after a rather passionate round. After all, the two of you have started to spend nights together.

Even though he's only your sugar daddy, there's something very natural about the way you've become used to being entangled in his arms as you go to sleep. Though, of course, he's always absent in the early morning.

"People are starting to talk," You chuckle. "You know what happens when people gossip."

Bruce seems consumed by a singular thought as he shifts the duvet over your shoulder, loitering his hand over the curve of your cheek.

"Maybe you should say that we're dating." He says—something that makes you draw pause.

"Dating?" You ask, thinking about the way that it feels on your tongue. The way that it blossoms incandescent in the housing of your chest. The way that it brings shy, lilting smile to your face—drawn in parallel by him.

"I won't mind." He says with such sincerity you cannot doubt its veracity. "Easier than saying the alternative."

"Hmmmm," You tarry on this thought for the duration of an instant. "No one will believe me."

"Maybe we should go on a few more public outings," Bruce offers, "To sell the point."

"Careful—"—You grin with teasing angle—"—You keep me out and about, you'll have to promote me from sugar baby to concubine."

You find yourself laughing at your inept choice of words, though Bruce is silent as the grave.

You wave disarming hand. "Okay, poor choice of words. Something else."

"Yes," Bruce says as he lures you towards him, "Something else."

When he kisses you, his arms wrapping around you—something feels different as he clasps you against the implacable wall of his body. But drowse already draws your eyes closed, so you make sure to give your farewells.

"Goodnight, Bruce." You say and press a gentle kiss against the divot that marks the location of his heart. How lucky you feel to have access to it.

Bruce says your name in parting to sleep, along with a murmured intonation that is buried in the crown of your head. But you don't hear it—you're already lost to sleep.

dividers and banner made by me :)

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"Oh, okay. Because of the heat?" This is your first summer on your farm. You're trying to learn everything you can for the future.

He nods. "Then I'll move the rest of the hay."

You make a mental note to watch when Jason starts tossing hay bales. Woof. "Okay. Thanks, Jason. I'm gonna make lunch soon."

He gives you a thumbs up and walks away. You do not (repeat, do not) stare at his broad backside as he walks away. That would be unprofessional and really, really stupid because Jason's the only good farmhand you've found in a sixty-mile radius, and it was sheer luck that brought him here. You can't afford to go searching for someone else because your little crush got out of hand.

It wasn't your dream to own a farm. Your uncle died suddenly in March, and no one else in the family wanted the land. You were convinced by a family friend that a farm was a great way to be self-sufficient. Start anew.

They weren't wrong; you just aren't much of a farmer. It's only because of Jason that you've made any profit at all, or you might've run the farm into the ground.

Jason Todd. You met him by accident in town when he was passing through one day. He told you he was looking for work in an accent that wasn't from anywhere around here. He refused to answer any further questions. That suited you fine in your desperation. You were too frazzled to think about the consequences of hiring a mysterious, handsome stranger. But it's been two months now, and you're regretting everything.

Oh, he's fantastic help. That's not the issue.

The issue is how gently Jason speaks to the cows and the horses, squeezing them affectionately when he thinks you're not watching. It's how he doesn't say much, ever, but he somehow knows when you need help with a chore or when you're daunted by the responsibility of a farm.

Wordlessly, he goes where you go, shouldering the majority of labor. Jason will let you do chores long enough so you learn how they're done, and then he'll take over, shooing you away in minimal words.

He's good at what he does; he's worked on plenty of farms and ranches before. It's entirely professional on his end. It's a little more than that for you.

It almost feels domestic some days: Jason tending to the livestock, you handling the business end of things. Jason offered to make deliveries for you, and you agreed, but he wouldn't accept extra payment for it. At first, you tried to pay him for everything, unsure of the proper etiquette. Jason had very firmly told you that that was a good way to be robbed blind.

Jesus, you're already housing me, feeding me, and paying me. This is my damn job, got it?

And did that deter you from developing a crush? No! If anything, it made it worse, working with a guy who insisted upon being honestly compensated. You overdo it now by making extra pies or chicken bakes for Jason to graze on throughout the day, especially if you're not home. He tells you it's too much, but he won't refuse the extra food.

Sometimes, it feels like he knows exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it. He looks at you with such a piercing gaze, you feel unraveled. He must know your feelings. You hope he doesn't. You hope he does.

You finish the last tax form, happy to be done. Then you stand and stretch before going inside to start lunch. On his days off, Jason cooks for both of you. But being that he takes on the chores and deliveries, you don't mind cooking most days. It's nice to cook for another person, especially one who appreciates your efforts.

Embarrassingly, you've fantasized about Jason coming into the kitchen and sipping kisses from your lips, squeezing your waist, telling you how good the food smells and how good you taste. Your spine goes straight when Jason passes by and gets close to you, so close that you can feel his earthy heat. But he never touches you. And he certainly doesn't tell you how you good you taste.

The curtains on the kitchen window are parted. You have a perfect view of Jason in his white undershirt and jeans and boots. He's stocky and taller than any man you've ever met, all muscle and fat, built like an ox. He told you once it's all he's good for, his strength. You don't know about that, but you can't deny that he's built for farm work.

He lifts the hay bales now, tossing them easily. You absently prepare chicken salad sandwiches while you watch Jason work. You feel like a pervert, gagging for a glimpse of your employee doing his job. You don't possess quite enough shame to stop, though.

Maybe you need to start dating again. Maybe this is just because you're lonely and Jason is the person you interact with the most. You should go to the events they host a few miles away for single people. You're sure you'd at least find someone to occupy your time for a little while.

Then again, you need to focus on the farm. You can't let yourself get distracted by some nobody. Jason cares about your farm's success, so he's okay. But you can't invite anyone else into your life right now.

Cosmic forces deal you your payback then. You're chopping celery for the salad and the knife slips. It's not a serious cut, but it's deep enough for blood to gush from your finger.

The porch door swings open then. Jason hangs up his hat on the hook. His eyes immediately fall onto your bleeding finger.

"It's just a little cut," you begin, but Jason ignores you. He herds you like a sheepdog into a seat at the kitchen table, and you obey, dazed by his bulk and easy command. No wonder the horses listen easily to him and not to you.

Jason washes his hands, then gets the first aid kid from under the sink. He's the one who insisted on you getting it. It's been used quite a bit, you being accident-prone, especially with unfamiliar equipment. The first time you needed it, Jason looked at you with a little smugness, proud that his suggestion came in handy. Your crush blossomed.

"I can do it," you say when Jason sits down next to you with the kit, but he wordlessly ignores you and you watch, almost through an out-of-body experience, as Jason takes your wrist and gently cleans your cut. It stings, and you hiss. He squeezes you in apology, then continues, sealing your cut with a band-aid.

Jason's hair is spiked with sweat. He's got a smear of dirt on his cheek. God, what you'd give to see him in the bath. He only takes five minute showers for as long as you've known him: quick and efficent.

As soon as your cut is tended to, Jason stands, the chair scraping back. He puts away the kit and continues where you left off with the celery, using a fresh knife and a fresh board. Luckily, no blood got on the food.

"I can keep cutting," you say. "Jason, you go wash up. I can do it."

Again, you're ignored, and it's not like you can muscle your way to the counter. So you huff and take the iced tea out of the fridge instead. It's not long before Jason's putting two plates down, yours with potato chips inside of the sandwich, just how you like it.

"You're so stubborn," you say, huffing without any heat.

"Takes one to know one," he says neutrally, filling the glasses with water first. He's always getting on you about staying hydrated. Caffeine is a diuretic, he reminds you.

You grumble. "Kicking me out of my own kitchen..."

But you can't shake the feeling of Jason's calloused hands on yours. His skin was sun-hot. How are you going to manage when he inevitably leaves for more work?

"Thank you for taking care of everything, though," you say, unable to stop your soft words. "And me."

"'S my job," he says, hunched over his sandwich, not looking at you.

"To take care of me?" you ask, face getting warmer.

"You're the boss. You're part of the farm."

"Oh."