#jbenn

“Here, watch me,” you say, taking Jamie’s left hand in your own and resting it palm-down on your knee. You dip the brush into the appropriately victory-green nail polish and wipe the excess on the inside of the bottleneck. When Jamie asked you to teach him to paint his nails, you’d been surprised, to say the least. Maybe you should have seen it coming with how he always watched you do your own, and always let young girls paint his, but you still sometimes have a hard time seeing past the big, manly hockey player stereotype. You set the small bottle down on the coffee table, picking his hand up off your leg and holding it firmly in your non-dominant hand.

“Okay, so you’re going to start in the center of your nail,” you explain, touching the brush there. From there, you push back to the cuticle carefully, dragging down one side of his nail to spread the paint evenly. You trace the line of his skin along the other side before pulling the rest of the polish to cover the middle of his nail, instructing him as you go. Painting your nails had gotten a million times easier after you’d come across this technique online, and you used a lot fewer Q-tips cleaning your cuticles since.

“Now you try,” you order, handing over the bottle and brush. Jamie takes both, carefully wiping away most of the polish on the brush after dipping it, which isn’t ideal, but will still work. It’s easier to dip again than work with too much polish. He starts at the center like you’d shown him, pushing toward the edge so, so slowly. He manages not to get any paint on the base, and only skims the skin on the right side when he pulls back, a vast improvement from his first try. His brow is furrowed in concentration, tip of his tongue poked out between his teeth and as paints the rest at a snail’s pace. It’s all very endearing, really. Even more so when he finishes the nail and looks to you for approval, smiling tentatively.

“Great job babe!” you encourage earnestly. He actually did a pretty damn good job, considering it’s his first time. His face lights up at the praise and he visibly straightens in pride. It’s almost unbearably cute, except for the part where his leg jostles the table enough that it knocks over the polish. Both of you jump up to try to contain the spill, wiping with cotton pads and screwing the top back onto the bottle to avoid any further leakage, cursing along the way. Once the sticky polish is fully removed from the table’s wooden surface, the two of you make silent eye contact for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

“Just had to get paint on something, huh?” you tease lightly. Jamie mumbles a half-hearted “shut up” before reeling you in for a lingering kiss. You smile against each other’s lips, probably a little too much for it to be considered a kiss, technically, but “mashing your faces together” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Jamie’s hands are big and warm on your face and neck. They meander down to your back and waist, innocent enough until his grip tightens and you have just enough time to say his name threateningly before he shifts to toss you down onto the couch. He’s done this enough times that you know you’ll land right, so you mostly focus on trying to curl up as quickly as possible to avoid his inevitably questing fingers. He’s fast for his size, though, and manages to sit astride your hips before you can properly defend yourself, hands poised above you.

“Jameson Benn, if you tickle me--” you begin to threaten him, cutting yourself off when he fixes you with an overexaggerated innocent face, “Don’t even pretend you weren’t going to!”

“My own partner, accusing me of such things,” he shakes his head, all faux-betrayal. You roll your eyes so hard you can hear your mom’s voice in the back of your head telling you they’ll fall out if you keep it up. He doesn’t tickle you, though, which is a pleasant surprise. Instead, he takes both your hands in his own, and you realize he’s inspecting your nails.

“You should let me do yours,” he decides, not waiting for a response before leaning over to grab the salvaged bottle of polish. Not that you’d refuse, anyway, but still. He goes back to his intense focus, zoning in on your nails as he slowly coats them in shiny green. It would probably be cuter if your legs weren’t going numb from being trapped under 230 pounds of hockey player. You tap his hip with the ball of your already-painted hand, raising your eyebrows at him when his eyes snap to yours. It takes a long moment, but he realizes what’s going on, giving a small “oh! Sorry,” and lifting up enough tthat blood flow returns in a rush. You can’t help but groan at the pins and needles, squirming a bit until Jamie scolds you to hold still so he doesn’t mess up or spill the polish again.

He finishes the second hand much faster, probably not keen on keeping himself hovering above you for too long after an intense practice, thighs already starting to tremble a bit by time he gives his handiwork a final once-over and climbs off of you. Your nails are a little uneven, some green on the skin around some of them, but he’s honestly done a pretty admirable job. Even if he hadn’t, you’d wear it for at least a couple days anyway.

“Now we match,” he says triumphantly, holding his own nails up next to yours. It makes you giggle despite yourself, and again you attempt to kiss him through too much of a smile for it to be any good. It’s the best.

“You know what you have to do now right?” you whisper conspiratorially, wiggling around until you’re sat up against the arm of the couch. Jamie just gives you a confused look, adjusting to keep his head close while you move.

“Now you gotta get me a glass of water and some chips,” you say, able to feel the shit-eating grin spreading across your face. Jamie lightly smacks your shoulder with the back of his hand, rolling his eyes like you had earlier. Your laugh is more outright this time.

“I have to wait for my nails to dry!” you defend, holding your hands up plaintively, “And you made my legs numb!” They’re not even really numb anymore, but it’s as good an excuse as any.