Inside your apartment, the air is warm and thick with the scent of vanilla sugar candles flickering on your dresser, strawberry lip balm, and that clean sweetness of the fabric softener you use on everything. Your room is a cotton-candy explosion: blush walls covered in polaroids and fairy lights, a plush rug the color of bubblegum, shelves lined with Sanrio figurines and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. The bed is a cloud of rose-quartz sheets and way too many throw pillows, all satin and ruffles.

Jason's sitting in the middle of it all, feeling like a smudge of black ink on pastel paper.

He's shirtless, wearing nothing but the Hello Kitty pajama pants you practically forced on him an hour ago—"They're comfy, Jay, and they match my set!"—pink flannel dotted with tiny white kittens. He looks ridiculous. He knows it. But the way your eyes lit up when he grumbled and pulled them on made something in his chest go soft and stupid.

You're perched on his lap, hair twisted up in a scrunchie the size of a donut, wearing an light baby-pink sleep cami top and sleep shorts. In your lap: a tray of skincare products that looks like it belongs in a boutique, not on a vigilante's face. Cleansing balm, toner, essence, serum, moisturizer; labels in pretty cursive, all pastel packaging with gold accents.

"Close your eyes, tough guy," you murmur, voice soft, dipping a cotton pad into micellar water. "Time for step one."

Jason huffs, but obeys—because it's you, and because the truth is he's been waiting for this kind of gentle assault since the first time you dragged him into Sephora and made him smell fifteen different body mists. He hasn't let anyone take care of him like this since... ever, really. Not since he was a kid on the streets, and definitely not after the Lazarus Pit turned tenderness into something he didn't trust.

You start with gentle circles across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, along his jaw. Humming under your breath (some pop song he pretends to hate but secretly knows all the words to because you play it constantly) and he feels the tension in his shoulders start to unravel, thread by thread.

“You’ve got such good skin,” you say softly, almost scolding. “It’s criminal you don’t take better care of it. All this brooding and no moisturizer? Rude.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes cracking open to find you watching him with that fond, exasperated look you get when he’s being difficult. “Never really had time for spa days between getting blown up and punching clowns, babe.”

You pause, thumb brushing over the faint white scar at his hairline (one of the older ones, from before he came back). Your expression flickers, you lean in and press your lips there, soft and deliberate.

“Well,” you whisper against his skin, “you’ve got time now.”

And damn if that doesn’t hit him square in the chest—how you see all the broken parts of him and still choose to stay, still choose to cover him in strawberry shampoo and ridiculous pink pajamas like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. “You’re gonna turn me into a damn princess at this rate,” he mutters into your neck, but his voice is rough with something that isn’t complaint.