The apartment is quiet. Gotham is still for once, rain sliding down the glass in thin streaks that catch the glow of the city lights. It smells like you in here. Like vanilla sugar and something warm and soft beneath it. Jason breathes deep, greedy for it, greedy for you.

His hair is still damp from the shower you just dragged him out of, and there’s a lazy heat in his muscles from the way you’d touched him under the water. He sits on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, looking like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer will. His shirt’s abandoned somewhere by the bathroom door. The only light in the room is from the lamp on your side of the bed, soft and golden, like it was made just for you.

You’re in front of the mirror, towel loose around your hair. Skin flushed from the steam, dewy and warm. You don’t even notice the way he’s staring at you. Or maybe you do, and you like it. Jason wouldn’t put it past you.

You smooth lotion into your skin like it’s a ritual. Slow. Careful. Tender. From your calves to your thighs, over your hips, across your belly and breasts. He watches the way your fingers work over every soft curve and feels something deep in his chest clench until it almost hurts. You smell like sugar and heat and the ghost of his soap clinging to your skin, and Jason swears it’s enough to ruin him.

You don’t mean to tease him. He knows that. You’re just existing. Bare and beautiful and his. But every shift of your body drags him under all the same. You hum softly as you rub lotion along your collarbone, tilting your head back like you’ve got no idea he’s seconds away from worshipping the ground you stand on.

He bites down on a laugh. The sound that comes out of him instead is low, rough, and helpless.

Your wedding ring glints in the lamplight when you reach for another bottle, and Jason’s chest aches like it always does when he sees it. That stupid little piece of metal undoes him every time. You chose him. You looked at all his jagged edges and decided to love him anyway.

He moves before he thinks. Slow. Heavy. Like a man walking into something holy. You glance at him, and there’s that small smile. The one that says you know exactly what he’s thinking. The one that kills him every time.

He drops to his knees in front of you. No hesitation. Big hands slide over your hips, fingers digging in just enough to ground himself. He presses his face into the softness of your belly and breathes you in.

Christ, you smell good.

“Jason,” you murmur, laughing softly when he doesn’t move, but he only shakes his head against you.

“Shh. Just let me,” he says, voice low and wrecked. He kisses the curve of your stomach, slow and reverent. His thumbs rub lazy circles into your skin like he could hold you there forever.

You snort, but his blue eyes cut up at you, and there’s nothing playful in them. Just hunger and devotion, sharp enough to strip him bare. He's just in boxers, tattoos and scars on full display against his muscles.

He presses another kiss to your skin. Then another. Rougher this time, like he can’t stop himself.

"Marry me." He breathes against your skin, blue eyes peering up at you in devotion. He knows you've already said yes. He knows you've already walked down the aisle. He knows you had the time of your life on the honeymoon. He just wants to hear it again. He just needs the reminder.