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You wake up curled against Jarod's chest, pressed together as close as possible; his arms are wound tightly around you, his slow breath warm on your nape. Sleep has softened the harsh, dark lines of his face into something gentler. His perpetual frown has almost vanished entirely. (Almost.)
"You awake, baby?" you whisper. He stirs–his lashes inch open to reveal those droopy eyes you love so much, and you smile, entwining your fingers. His hands are still so cold . At least you can feel them for once, in all their glacial, calloused glory - it's rare to catch him without his gloves.
(Not as rare as it used to be. Not around you. The thought leaves you feeling ridiculously fuzzy inside, as if you've just been sucker-punched by a marshmallow.)
"Mmmh." Sighing, he nudges his chilled forehead against yours, gently bumps your noses together. "How are you?"
"Good. Getting a little hungry. But this is too nice for me to bother getting out of bed, you know?"
You hook your leg over his thigh as you talk; you don't think you'll ever be close enough to this wonderful man. Nuzzling the crook of his neck doesn't yield the cigarette - well, stench seems harsh, especially since you've grown to like it - that it normally would. Hm. Maybe he has been cutting back. "You?"
"I'm… a lot less hungover than I usually am on a Sunday morning," he rasps. You snort, even if the comment makes something inside you ache. Just a little.
Before you can respond (probably would've something cheesy as hell, anyway), he's detangling himself from your arms–carefully, always so carefully , as if you'll shatter like bone china when he's too rough or loud or himself. A small, hurt noise bubbles up in your throat. You grab his hand as he tries to tuck the duvet over you.
"Jarod? You– you don't want to stay?" With me , you'd say, if you weren't aware of how utterly pathetic it'd sound.
He fixes you with an amused stare. "I do," he says simply, scratching the back of his neck as he shifts on his feet. "But I was, uh… thinking of making you some breakfast."
In the back of your mind, you become vaguely aware of the tomato-red blush burning across your entire face. The rest of your brain? Too preoccupied with screaming-sobbing-raving about this amazing, incredible, darling man who you on all accounts do not deserve . Oh, isn't he just the sweetest?
"You're too good to me, baby," you stammer out, wringing your hands, beaming wide like a dork despite yourself. "You don't have to, really–"
His arm snakes around your waist as he kisses you– it's the kind of kiss that makes smouldering coal flare inside your sternum, languorous and scalding and relaxed, leaving your head stuffed full of cotton wool when his cold lips withdraw.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs into the corner of your mouth. The scruff of his beard rasps against your cheek; you've always loved that stubble on him.
Just before he draws away, you press your lips to the bridge of his nose, then slump back onto the bed. He smiles crookedly. Genuinely. His thumb strokes over your pulse, soft.
The simple intimacy of it… Warmth zings up your spine. It's a static shock and homecoming and a vow all at once, something as familiar as it is delightfully fresh. You're home, he says, crinkled eyes and a softened frown. I love you.
You're home too, Jarod.
"Y'know," you say, eyes twinkling, "for a guy so convinced he doesn't know how to be gentle? You're one of the sweetest people I've ever met."
For a moment, he turns very, very still - then, eyesight glued firmly to the floor, he strides out the room. Almost out. He lingers there in the open door, trailing his slender fingers up and down the door frame.
"...mmh." The corners of his lips are tilted up.
(He makes you pancakes. He makes you pancakes, from scratch, with chocolate sauce and strawberries and banana– and you don't think you've ever been happier in your life.)