.0124 - Keep Me Inside the Pocket of Your Ripped Jeans
Jensen/Jared (past Jensen/Danneel, Jared/Genevieve)
2,290 words
Title by Ed Sheeran
Warning: No beta. No corrections. Posting it now only because I'm trying to post a fic a month, and February was too damn short, and because An wanted a new fic. I'm pretty sure I'll go back to this and edit it, but for now...
A jungle of concrete and glass. Shadows of buildings and ribbons of lights through the windshield, smudged and tattered by rain. Greenery that’s faded into decaying brown and dusty gray, and stray clusters of dirty snow gathered in the corners of pavements and roads. Steps and faces that merge into a crowd, unnoticed, unimportant.
Vancouver at night is a city of strangers; bigger and louder, yet distant, and emptier. Its streets are like a giant spider web with weaved in threads, designed for getting lost in. Or for hiding away.
Right now, Jared wishes he could do both, preferably at once. But it’s so difficult to go astray on a well-known route. And the ten kilometers from his house to Jensen’s apartment is a path just as familiar as the lines on his palm, with all of its curves and turn-offs and zebra crossings.
*
Jared follows Jensen’s steps into the kitchen; bare feet on a hardwood floor and the soft creaking that accompanies them. Smiles at the little waddle to Jensen’s walk, just the slightest sway of his hips, familiar and oddly hypnotizing. The swagger of a cowboy.
Jensen should be surprised; it’s Saturday, after midnight, and Genevieve is in town. Jensen knows that. But even if he is, or was, he doesn’t show it. He leans against the kitchen unit, freckled fingers on the marble counter, mirroring Jared’s jittery stance by the window, and waits. He doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t push, in any way, he just waits. And when the minutes drag on and Jared still doesn’t talk, when he just shrugs, because he can’t find the right words to say, to explain, he smiles. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Jensen’s look is doubtful, knowing. “Pancakes?”
Jared nods; something strangely close to a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds great.”
*
Jensen stands up and picks up Jared’s plate, empty, save for a few crumbs of fried dough and smears of maple syrup. “Want some more?”
“Gosh, no, I’m full.” Jared pats his miraculously flat stomach. “Ready to explode.”
Jensen’s eyebrow arches up at its own will. Surprise. Worries. “You eat twice as much usually. Are you sick or something?”
“Or something.” Jared mumbles, not loud, not quite ready to talk.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“Oookay.” Jensen makes to go on, move away, but Jared stops him. Doesn’t know why. But there are words on his tongue, different than the ones he’s saying. Wrong ones. There’s want in his hands, haunting temptation to reach out and touch, feel the smooth texture of Jensen’s skin beneath his fingertips. Again. At least one more time.
“Sorry for barging in here like this. I-I know it’s late.”
“That’s not a pro--” Jensen pauses, abruptly, when Jared rises to his feet and puts his hand on Jensen’s cheek, finger-pads ghosting over a high cheekbone. He blinks, startled, and moves back, just slightly, looking at Jared’s outstretched hand like there’s a danger in there.
There are shadows in his eyes, and wrinkles beneath them. Jared thinks that he looks like he could use some patching up himself. A little more than Jared has to give. A lot more than cinnamon pancakes.
“Sorry, you just-- You have some… flour. Here.” Hand poised in the air, Jared tilts his head to the side, asking for permission.
Jensen nods, narrows his eyes when Jared’s thumb strokes the tender skin just beneath his eye; alibi for the lie that Jared’s made up. Because there’s nothing there; no flour, no imperfection, just a dusting of freckles.
And then, it’s like he forgets, for a moment, that all the snapshots in his mind are just that, polaroid-like sequences of times long gone. That they are over. That they never really were. He leans in and brushes his mouth over Jensen’s, warm and soft, feels the full flesh slightly give in beneath his touch.
There’s a quiet sound, the tiniest of moans escaping through the chink between Jensen’s lips, vulnerable, and so disarming. Jensen reaches his free hand out blindly and pushes at Jared’s shoulder in a wordless but evident rejection. But somewhere between that shove and Jared’s step back, which he doesn’t even finish, Jensen’s fingers curl in the sleeve of Jared’s shirt, stilling him, keeping him in place. He opens his mouth on a heavy exhale, like a silent invitation, wet heat, and the taste of maple on his tongue, and something Jared’s forgotten he even knows. Jensen. Texas and home. And memories; both sugar-sour and lemon-sweet.
He puts his hand on Jensen’s hip, seeking anchor just above the bump of the bone there and pulls him in, deepening the kiss. Jensen goes, body pressed right against Jared’s, firm and warm, teeth grazing, nipping at Jared’s lower lip.
It’s so easy, like a dance, a perfected fight scene, every touch, every movement so familiar, like a backward rewound tape. When Jensen’s back hit the wall, the cold embrace of raw bricks and framed photographs, his jeans are already half unbuttoned, Jared’s fingers dipping in beneath worn denim.
And there it is; the misstep, the mistake. That moment when Jensen realizes where they are and what they’re doing. When he remembers that it’s not just them anymore, that things have changed a bit. That they aren’t as simple as they were once. He freezes, his whole body going rigid, like a mannequin, his mouth open inches away from Jared’s, too far suddenly. His breathing is quick, ragged.
It hurts to pull away, let go. It’s scary to look down and see the dazed, confused expression on Jensen’s face, the want and guilt in his darkened eyes.
“I’m… sorry.” But he’s not, not really. And he thinks that Jensen knows that, too.
Jensen blinks, nods. “Yeah.” He looks down at himself, crumpled shirt and undone jeans, then up at Jared. He bites his lip, swollen and spit-slick, and it’s another mistake, Jared knows, but he can’t stop himself from moving closer again, from reaching for him.
Jensen’s palm placed heavily on his chest stops him before he really does. “You’re engaged.”
“Yeah.” There’s a taste of irony in that single word, just a flavor. But Jensen doesn’t miss it.
“What happened?” he asks, his touch suddenly lighter, moving up to Jared’s shoulder and smoothing the creases on his shirt. When he pulls away completely, Jared feels cold. Alone in his tragedy.
“It’s over.” Jared knew, he was there, but only when he says it out loud, to someone else, he realizes the weight of that announcement, of the reality. “We’re… over. We broke up,” he adds, like it’s not obvious. Like Jensen doesn’t understand the meaning of it and that’s why he looks so confused, so surprised.
“What?” he questions, and it’s so soft, so quiet Jared feels like he’s betrayed not only Gen, but Jensen, too. “I mean, I… I’m sorry.”
Jared shrugs, “Thanks, but, uh… we’re fine.”
“Right.” Jensen puts Jared’s plate on the counter finally, slow and overly careful, thinking, pondering. “Why didn’t you tell me you two were having troubles?”
“Because… we weren’t.” There were no troubles, no fights. There was… nothing. They’ve arrived to the end of their relationship without quarrels and reproaches, without emotions.
Jensen doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand. Jared wasn’t expecting him to. Jensen is a fighter, persistent and stubborn, he doesn’t just give up, he never stops trying. Not if there’s at least a tiny chance. “You don’t call off an engagement just… ‘cause.”
“Apparently, you do. I guess. Sometimes.” Jensen still doesn’t seem to be convinced. If Jared had any idea why Jensen would feel that way, he’d think that he sounds a little hurt. “Look, I… I’m not proud, okay? But it just… happened. It was a mutual agreement, really. We’re good.”
“Mutual agreement,” Jensen repeats, a disbelieving, bitter echo to his voice. “Just like that."
“It just didn’t feel right.” It’s not an excuse, just a statement. A fact he didn’t want to see before. “It never did. Only simpler.”
*
Jensen’s doing the dishes. Quietly. He’s not talking, hasn’t said a single word more, but his silence is that of a disagreeing kind. Heavy and uncomfortable. Silence over reproaches and disappointment.
But why? Because he thinks that he and Genevieve just gave it up? That they weren’t trying hard enough? Fighting hard enough? Because they knew, somewhere deep down, from the first moment, that there was nothing worth fighting for? But why is he mad?
Jared’s sitting on a chair turned around, his arms propped up on the back rest, regarding him. Watching the way the fabric of Jensen’s T-shirt shifts over his lower back and the waistband of his jeans as he moves. How the muscles in his arms tense and relax with every movement. The way his lips move, wordlessly, opening and closing on a song he doesn’t want to share. How gorgeous and sexy he is, and how he doesn’t know.
Jensen is a model, still, a public figure, always careful, always guarded. Always good looking. But he’s the most attractive when he doesn’t have to be, when no one asks him to be. When he’s just Jensen; just this man in ripped jeans and a worn Cowboys T-shirt, with two days’ worth of stubble and glasses on his nose. That’s the way Jared knows him the best, without masquerades and pretense. That’s how he likes him the most.
Is it possible to love, let go, and start loving again? Or never really stop loving, just pretend?
“Maybe she was right,” Jared notes, breaking the stiff quietness finally.
“Gen?” Jensen asks as he turns from the sink, hands wet and foamy nearly up to his elbows, and reaches for a dishtowel. “How so?”
“Maybe none of my relationships will work out. Because I don’t want them to work out. Not really. Because I like it the way it is… I-I mean… was. Before. Just you and me.”
No attachments, no promises. Just the two of them, and whatever felt good.
“But that was nothing,” Jensen objects, not insistently, more like a side note. Like he doesn’t quite believe it. Just like Jared doesn’t. Like he never did. “Right? Just… temporary. Before something better happens.”
“But what if it did… happen? And we missed it? What if this was it?”
There’s a chuckle that just wants to escape, but doesn’t. Something in Jensen’s eyes changes, hardens, and he straightens up, fingers entangled in the dishtowel. “You serious?” He sounds more serious than Jared. More than the word itself.
“Yeah.” Jared stands up, needing more space for his gesturing, and needing gesture to prove his point, make Jensen understand. “Yes, I mean… Every single date I go to ends up in a disaster. Every relationship I try. Every freaking time since--” Since I’ve had you. Since I felt you fall apart beneath me, unbreakable strength melting, shattering. “Since you. And you? When was the last time you even been on a date? When you’ve seen Danneel?” Jared regrets the words the second they slip out, but even then it’s too late.
Jensen hangs his head, looks down at the scrunched up dishtowel in his hands. There’s a sigh and a short nod, sad, defeated. “Well, it’s… ‘s gonna be a while, yeah.”
“Jensen… I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean-I know…”
And he does know. Knows how Jensen and Danneel keep on trying, and how they keep on failing. Knows that they both wanna make it work, so bad, keep it normal and make it real, have kids, a family, but their relationship just keeps on breaking. By distance, by business. They keep on building it anew, on ruins, and the fragile pillars of a friendship, but every step forward seems to send them five steps back. Now, there’s a state of limbo, a no man’s land within a relationship and a friendship, something in between, with benefits and losses of both.
Jared tried, too. And for a moment, he actually thought he had it, holding it firmly, branded. Almost. But it slipped away. And she did, too. And it doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should.
“It’s fine,” Jensen says, but he doesn’t look fine, not quite. He looks up, shrugs, fakes a smile or something real close to it. “I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Jared steps forward, almost surprised that Jensen lets him. Jensen watches him, curious, expectant, but his gaze seems to be softer now, less guarded, less cautionary. “And us?” Jared asks, sliding a finger through the belt loop on Jensen’s jeans, tugging him nearer. Jensen doesn’t move, he doesn’t touch him, only his hips, pressed right into Jared’s, hard bones and hot flesh. “Do you think we could be meant to be?”
“It came easy, right? Back then?”
No rules, no guide. No clashes, no tragedies.
“Yeah.”
“No disappointments,” Jensen adds, watching Jared’s fingers dance over the hem of his T-shirt, skidding beneath. “Because we weren’t expecting anything.” His eyes find Jared’s, quizzical, worried. “You think it can still work even if we start to expect something?”
Jared leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath Jensen’s ear, “I dunno. But I’d like to try.”
Jensen’s sigh is quiet, but so there. “I thought you wanted simple,” he remembers, his voice quivering just slightly. “You and me and expectations… that ain’t simple, Jare.”
Jared pulls away, looks at him. There’s disappointment in that question, poorly masked, more obvious. “Is that a no then?”
“It’s a… let’s try,” Jensen smiles, and it’s sweet. Real. “Without the expectations. It’s hard to live with them.”
Jared grins and curls his fingers in the front of Jensen’s T-shirt, drawing him up for a kiss. “Deal.”
2,290 words
Title by Ed Sheeran
Warning: No beta. No corrections. Posting it now only because I'm trying to post a fic a month, and February was too damn short, and because An wanted a new fic. I'm pretty sure I'll go back to this and edit it, but for now...
A jungle of concrete and glass. Shadows of buildings and ribbons of lights through the windshield, smudged and tattered by rain. Greenery that’s faded into decaying brown and dusty gray, and stray clusters of dirty snow gathered in the corners of pavements and roads. Steps and faces that merge into a crowd, unnoticed, unimportant.
Vancouver at night is a city of strangers; bigger and louder, yet distant, and emptier. Its streets are like a giant spider web with weaved in threads, designed for getting lost in. Or for hiding away.
Right now, Jared wishes he could do both, preferably at once. But it’s so difficult to go astray on a well-known route. And the ten kilometers from his house to Jensen’s apartment is a path just as familiar as the lines on his palm, with all of its curves and turn-offs and zebra crossings.
*
Jared follows Jensen’s steps into the kitchen; bare feet on a hardwood floor and the soft creaking that accompanies them. Smiles at the little waddle to Jensen’s walk, just the slightest sway of his hips, familiar and oddly hypnotizing. The swagger of a cowboy.
Jensen should be surprised; it’s Saturday, after midnight, and Genevieve is in town. Jensen knows that. But even if he is, or was, he doesn’t show it. He leans against the kitchen unit, freckled fingers on the marble counter, mirroring Jared’s jittery stance by the window, and waits. He doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t push, in any way, he just waits. And when the minutes drag on and Jared still doesn’t talk, when he just shrugs, because he can’t find the right words to say, to explain, he smiles. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Jensen’s look is doubtful, knowing. “Pancakes?”
Jared nods; something strangely close to a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds great.”
*
Jensen stands up and picks up Jared’s plate, empty, save for a few crumbs of fried dough and smears of maple syrup. “Want some more?”
“Gosh, no, I’m full.” Jared pats his miraculously flat stomach. “Ready to explode.”
Jensen’s eyebrow arches up at its own will. Surprise. Worries. “You eat twice as much usually. Are you sick or something?”
“Or something.” Jared mumbles, not loud, not quite ready to talk.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“Oookay.” Jensen makes to go on, move away, but Jared stops him. Doesn’t know why. But there are words on his tongue, different than the ones he’s saying. Wrong ones. There’s want in his hands, haunting temptation to reach out and touch, feel the smooth texture of Jensen’s skin beneath his fingertips. Again. At least one more time.
“Sorry for barging in here like this. I-I know it’s late.”
“That’s not a pro--” Jensen pauses, abruptly, when Jared rises to his feet and puts his hand on Jensen’s cheek, finger-pads ghosting over a high cheekbone. He blinks, startled, and moves back, just slightly, looking at Jared’s outstretched hand like there’s a danger in there.
There are shadows in his eyes, and wrinkles beneath them. Jared thinks that he looks like he could use some patching up himself. A little more than Jared has to give. A lot more than cinnamon pancakes.
“Sorry, you just-- You have some… flour. Here.” Hand poised in the air, Jared tilts his head to the side, asking for permission.
Jensen nods, narrows his eyes when Jared’s thumb strokes the tender skin just beneath his eye; alibi for the lie that Jared’s made up. Because there’s nothing there; no flour, no imperfection, just a dusting of freckles.
And then, it’s like he forgets, for a moment, that all the snapshots in his mind are just that, polaroid-like sequences of times long gone. That they are over. That they never really were. He leans in and brushes his mouth over Jensen’s, warm and soft, feels the full flesh slightly give in beneath his touch.
There’s a quiet sound, the tiniest of moans escaping through the chink between Jensen’s lips, vulnerable, and so disarming. Jensen reaches his free hand out blindly and pushes at Jared’s shoulder in a wordless but evident rejection. But somewhere between that shove and Jared’s step back, which he doesn’t even finish, Jensen’s fingers curl in the sleeve of Jared’s shirt, stilling him, keeping him in place. He opens his mouth on a heavy exhale, like a silent invitation, wet heat, and the taste of maple on his tongue, and something Jared’s forgotten he even knows. Jensen. Texas and home. And memories; both sugar-sour and lemon-sweet.
He puts his hand on Jensen’s hip, seeking anchor just above the bump of the bone there and pulls him in, deepening the kiss. Jensen goes, body pressed right against Jared’s, firm and warm, teeth grazing, nipping at Jared’s lower lip.
It’s so easy, like a dance, a perfected fight scene, every touch, every movement so familiar, like a backward rewound tape. When Jensen’s back hit the wall, the cold embrace of raw bricks and framed photographs, his jeans are already half unbuttoned, Jared’s fingers dipping in beneath worn denim.
And there it is; the misstep, the mistake. That moment when Jensen realizes where they are and what they’re doing. When he remembers that it’s not just them anymore, that things have changed a bit. That they aren’t as simple as they were once. He freezes, his whole body going rigid, like a mannequin, his mouth open inches away from Jared’s, too far suddenly. His breathing is quick, ragged.
It hurts to pull away, let go. It’s scary to look down and see the dazed, confused expression on Jensen’s face, the want and guilt in his darkened eyes.
“I’m… sorry.” But he’s not, not really. And he thinks that Jensen knows that, too.
Jensen blinks, nods. “Yeah.” He looks down at himself, crumpled shirt and undone jeans, then up at Jared. He bites his lip, swollen and spit-slick, and it’s another mistake, Jared knows, but he can’t stop himself from moving closer again, from reaching for him.
Jensen’s palm placed heavily on his chest stops him before he really does. “You’re engaged.”
“Yeah.” There’s a taste of irony in that single word, just a flavor. But Jensen doesn’t miss it.
“What happened?” he asks, his touch suddenly lighter, moving up to Jared’s shoulder and smoothing the creases on his shirt. When he pulls away completely, Jared feels cold. Alone in his tragedy.
“It’s over.” Jared knew, he was there, but only when he says it out loud, to someone else, he realizes the weight of that announcement, of the reality. “We’re… over. We broke up,” he adds, like it’s not obvious. Like Jensen doesn’t understand the meaning of it and that’s why he looks so confused, so surprised.
“What?” he questions, and it’s so soft, so quiet Jared feels like he’s betrayed not only Gen, but Jensen, too. “I mean, I… I’m sorry.”
Jared shrugs, “Thanks, but, uh… we’re fine.”
“Right.” Jensen puts Jared’s plate on the counter finally, slow and overly careful, thinking, pondering. “Why didn’t you tell me you two were having troubles?”
“Because… we weren’t.” There were no troubles, no fights. There was… nothing. They’ve arrived to the end of their relationship without quarrels and reproaches, without emotions.
Jensen doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand. Jared wasn’t expecting him to. Jensen is a fighter, persistent and stubborn, he doesn’t just give up, he never stops trying. Not if there’s at least a tiny chance. “You don’t call off an engagement just… ‘cause.”
“Apparently, you do. I guess. Sometimes.” Jensen still doesn’t seem to be convinced. If Jared had any idea why Jensen would feel that way, he’d think that he sounds a little hurt. “Look, I… I’m not proud, okay? But it just… happened. It was a mutual agreement, really. We’re good.”
“Mutual agreement,” Jensen repeats, a disbelieving, bitter echo to his voice. “Just like that."
“It just didn’t feel right.” It’s not an excuse, just a statement. A fact he didn’t want to see before. “It never did. Only simpler.”
*
Jensen’s doing the dishes. Quietly. He’s not talking, hasn’t said a single word more, but his silence is that of a disagreeing kind. Heavy and uncomfortable. Silence over reproaches and disappointment.
But why? Because he thinks that he and Genevieve just gave it up? That they weren’t trying hard enough? Fighting hard enough? Because they knew, somewhere deep down, from the first moment, that there was nothing worth fighting for? But why is he mad?
Jared’s sitting on a chair turned around, his arms propped up on the back rest, regarding him. Watching the way the fabric of Jensen’s T-shirt shifts over his lower back and the waistband of his jeans as he moves. How the muscles in his arms tense and relax with every movement. The way his lips move, wordlessly, opening and closing on a song he doesn’t want to share. How gorgeous and sexy he is, and how he doesn’t know.
Jensen is a model, still, a public figure, always careful, always guarded. Always good looking. But he’s the most attractive when he doesn’t have to be, when no one asks him to be. When he’s just Jensen; just this man in ripped jeans and a worn Cowboys T-shirt, with two days’ worth of stubble and glasses on his nose. That’s the way Jared knows him the best, without masquerades and pretense. That’s how he likes him the most.
Is it possible to love, let go, and start loving again? Or never really stop loving, just pretend?
“Maybe she was right,” Jared notes, breaking the stiff quietness finally.
“Gen?” Jensen asks as he turns from the sink, hands wet and foamy nearly up to his elbows, and reaches for a dishtowel. “How so?”
“Maybe none of my relationships will work out. Because I don’t want them to work out. Not really. Because I like it the way it is… I-I mean… was. Before. Just you and me.”
No attachments, no promises. Just the two of them, and whatever felt good.
“But that was nothing,” Jensen objects, not insistently, more like a side note. Like he doesn’t quite believe it. Just like Jared doesn’t. Like he never did. “Right? Just… temporary. Before something better happens.”
“But what if it did… happen? And we missed it? What if this was it?”
There’s a chuckle that just wants to escape, but doesn’t. Something in Jensen’s eyes changes, hardens, and he straightens up, fingers entangled in the dishtowel. “You serious?” He sounds more serious than Jared. More than the word itself.
“Yeah.” Jared stands up, needing more space for his gesturing, and needing gesture to prove his point, make Jensen understand. “Yes, I mean… Every single date I go to ends up in a disaster. Every relationship I try. Every freaking time since--” Since I’ve had you. Since I felt you fall apart beneath me, unbreakable strength melting, shattering. “Since you. And you? When was the last time you even been on a date? When you’ve seen Danneel?” Jared regrets the words the second they slip out, but even then it’s too late.
Jensen hangs his head, looks down at the scrunched up dishtowel in his hands. There’s a sigh and a short nod, sad, defeated. “Well, it’s… ‘s gonna be a while, yeah.”
“Jensen… I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean-I know…”
And he does know. Knows how Jensen and Danneel keep on trying, and how they keep on failing. Knows that they both wanna make it work, so bad, keep it normal and make it real, have kids, a family, but their relationship just keeps on breaking. By distance, by business. They keep on building it anew, on ruins, and the fragile pillars of a friendship, but every step forward seems to send them five steps back. Now, there’s a state of limbo, a no man’s land within a relationship and a friendship, something in between, with benefits and losses of both.
Jared tried, too. And for a moment, he actually thought he had it, holding it firmly, branded. Almost. But it slipped away. And she did, too. And it doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should.
“It’s fine,” Jensen says, but he doesn’t look fine, not quite. He looks up, shrugs, fakes a smile or something real close to it. “I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Jared steps forward, almost surprised that Jensen lets him. Jensen watches him, curious, expectant, but his gaze seems to be softer now, less guarded, less cautionary. “And us?” Jared asks, sliding a finger through the belt loop on Jensen’s jeans, tugging him nearer. Jensen doesn’t move, he doesn’t touch him, only his hips, pressed right into Jared’s, hard bones and hot flesh. “Do you think we could be meant to be?”
“It came easy, right? Back then?”
No rules, no guide. No clashes, no tragedies.
“Yeah.”
“No disappointments,” Jensen adds, watching Jared’s fingers dance over the hem of his T-shirt, skidding beneath. “Because we weren’t expecting anything.” His eyes find Jared’s, quizzical, worried. “You think it can still work even if we start to expect something?”
Jared leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath Jensen’s ear, “I dunno. But I’d like to try.”
Jensen’s sigh is quiet, but so there. “I thought you wanted simple,” he remembers, his voice quivering just slightly. “You and me and expectations… that ain’t simple, Jare.”
Jared pulls away, looks at him. There’s disappointment in that question, poorly masked, more obvious. “Is that a no then?”
“It’s a… let’s try,” Jensen smiles, and it’s sweet. Real. “Without the expectations. It’s hard to live with them.”
Jared grins and curls his fingers in the front of Jensen’s T-shirt, drawing him up for a kiss. “Deal.”