no because wife swap soldier boy is actually unwell levels of hot. like he goes into it thinking it’s gonna be some bullshit publicity stunt, just two weeks of pretending to care about some soft little suburban wife with cameras in his face, and then he meets you.
you’re not even trying to impress him. that’s what pisses him off first. you don’t fawn, don’t giggle, don’t ask to touch the suit. you just look him up and down like he’s another loud man taking up space in your kitchen and go, “rules are on the fridge, ben.”
and he’s instantly ruined.
because at first he’s arrogant about it. he thinks you’re playing hard to get. thinks you’re doing the good wife act for the cameras, all polite smiles and clipped answers while your husband is off living in ben’s house with his actual wife. but then the cameras shut off for the night, and you’re still like that. calm. unimpressed. standing barefoot in the kitchen in your little sleep shorts, pouring yourself water while he leans against the counter and stares at your legs like he’s forgotten every commandment he’s ever ignored.
he starts breaking rules just to see what you’ll do.
walks around shirtless. takes up the whole couch. calls you sweetheart in that low, gravelly voice. stands too close when you’re cooking, big hands braced on either side of the counter behind you, his chest almost touching your back while he murmurs, “your husband let you boss him around like this too?”
and you don’t even turn around. you just say, “only when he’s smart.”
ben laughs, but it’s not funny to him anymore. not really. because he’s hard in his sweats and you’re pretending you don’t notice, and he knows you do. he knows by the way your hand hesitates on the knife. by the way your thighs press together when he leans in close enough for his beard to brush your ear.
by day five, he’s fucking unbearable.
he watches you fold laundry like it’s porn. watches you bend over the dryer and mutters something filthy under his breath. catches himself staring at your panties in the basket for too long. he starts finding excuses to touch you. hand on your lower back when he moves past you. fingers brushing your hip when he reaches into the cupboard. thumb dragging over your wrist when he hands you your coffee.
and then one night, after a fake dinner for the cameras where he plays your temporary husband a little too well, he follows you upstairs.
you tell him, “ben, the cameras are off.”
then he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
not sweet. not gentle. not polite reality-tv fake-marriage shit. he backs you into the bedroom door and kisses you with one hand around your jaw and the other gripping your waist so hard you gasp into his mouth. he likes that. he likes hearing you lose that calm little voice. likes feeling you grab his shirt like you’re angry at yourself for wanting him.
“there she is,” he mutters, mouth dragging down your neck. “knew you weren’t as well-behaved as you looked.”
