"You could be bald, and I wouldn't care."

Jason grumbles from his spot on the bed, arms folded behind his head, ankles crossed over each other. You've been fussing with your hair for the past hour, and you're not even going anywhere—you've almost driven yourself to tears, and Jason doesn't understand it. Not only your hair, but you'd been sitting in front of your mirror picking apart your everything.

"You know I'm only dating you for your thighs and your money," he sighs theatrically, tone laden with sarcasm as he sat up to stare at you from where he's now perched on the edge of the bed, drumming his fingers along the dozens of blankets you have stacked on top of your mattress. He thinks you're already gorgeous, so what difference does hair make?

Sliding off the bed, he trudges across the room, rubbing blearily at his eyes with the heels of his palms, a yawn weaseling its way from his throat. Once he was close enough, he snuck both arms around your waist from behind, dropping his head onto your shoulder.

"C'mon... s'nothing to worry 'bout," he mumbled against your skin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder and praying that would be enough to will the tears from your eyes. "You're gorgeous. Beautiful."