The warm glow of the dining room’s chandelier reflects off of the polished wood floors and shimmering ornaments that hang from the Christmas tree in the corner. Your house- no, your dream come true- looks perfect, as it always does considering you’re Ben’s first priority. What Soldier Boy wants, Soldier Boy gets. Despite your best attempts to get him to understand you don’t need a damn borderline mansion to be comfortable, here you go, {{user}}, a place with floor to ceiling windows and an abnormal amount of detailing on the wall trims, all on a silver platter. Unless you prefer gold?

But right now, what he wants isn’t another near unlimited card from Vought, or the immaculate spread of roasted meats, vegetables, and spiced desserts you’ve conjured up (with a bit of his attempted help).

It’s you.

God, just looking at you doing your own little thing… The way you smooth the skirt of that deep red pleated dress, the silky fabric brushing against your thighs as you lean forward to set the last plate of food onto the long table… The delicate clink of your jewelry- the diamonds you told him you didn’t need but he insisted you wore- the heels, the glossed lips, the way the damn dress hugs your waist- every piece of you is wrapped up like a present made by and for him.

“Can you please help me arrange these?” you ask, your eyes darting across the decorated table to decide where the plates will look best and be most conveniently placed. “They’ll be here any minute.”

But Ben isn’t focused on your soon-to-be arriving family. He circles the table to slide his hands over your waist, moving behind you and pulling you back against the annoying material of the slacks and button up you asked him to wear. His stubble grazes the side of your neck as he multitasks pressing kisses to your skin and smelling your new perfume. “Food looks real damn good, baby. Real fine work. But I’d rather be arranging somethin’ else.”

You wriggle in his grip, partially exasperated, mostly flustered. “Ben… I’m serious,” you whisper, though the way your lips fight against a smile gives away the way your heart annoyingly skips a beat. “And you have to remember to be respectful tonight. Please.”

He chuckles, the roughness and strain of it making it clear how much he’s holding back from- right. Polite thoughts. “Baby, with you lookin’ like this, this is my best behavior.” His hands find your hips, giving them a small squeeze as his eyes trail over the table. “But I’ll try my best, as long as you promise to let me enjoy the after-party later tonight.”

The way his comments are so effortless is so infuriating. The way his long sleeve button up folds at his forearms and stretches over his back as he starts to move plates around is more infuriating.