Jason still wasn’t used to this.

Not the marriage itself—he’d known, without a doubt, that he wanted this. That you were it for him. But everything else? The little things, the day-to-day reality of sharing a life with someone? That was new.

The house was quiet, the kind of peaceful that once would’ve made him uneasy. No battle horns. No war councils. No looming threats. Just the faint sound of the rain against the windows, the warmth of a home that belonged to both of you, and the realization—again—that this was real.

That he was married. To you.

Jason Grace, husband. It still sounded weird in his head. Not because he regretted it—Gods, no—but because it felt almost too good to be true.

That was still strange—seeing two of everything. Two plates left on the table after breakfast. Two pairs of slippers by the door. Two coats hanging in the entryway instead of one.

Jason had spent most of his life with a single-minded focus: duty, responsibility, survival. He wasn’t used to this—waking up with someone beside him, brushing his teeth while you stood next to him, accidentally reaching for your towel instead of his.

And the intimacy… that was still something he was wrapping his head around.

It wasn’t just the closeness of sharing a bed. It was everything. The way your hands fit against his skin, the way your lips felt when you kissed him like you had all the time in the world.

It was thrilling. Terrifying.

Sometimes, he caught himself second-guessing—if he was doing enough, if he was getting this right. But then you’d touch him, whisper something against his skin, and he’d remember that this wasn’t something he had to perfect.

Jason let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair as he watched you move around the house.

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and he felt that familiar, steady warmth settle in his chest.

“So,” he said, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “At what point in marriage am I supposed to stop feeling like I somehow tricked you into this?”