Chapter Text
It’s a well-kept secret, from everyone that’s not Marinette, that Jason is an unbearable romantic. He buys her flowers and fabric and a thousand little trinkets that ‘made him think of her’. He whispers love poems against her lips and serenades her with his favorite sonnets on lazy Sunday mornings.
Today, he had worked himself into a snit over the fact that he was not Marinette’s First—exactly what kind of First did not seem to matter to him. The idea that he could not lay claim to her first kiss or boast about him being her first and only love—that there was something so fundamentally romantic as a First that he was incapable of sharing with her—it was driving him crazy.
Which is why Marinette finds herself sitting on the kitchen counter, watching as Jason paces like a caged animal, and trying to contain her bubbling amusement.
“Jason,” she calls to her ridiculous man, garnering his attention instantly. She smiles and watches the tension begin to bleed from him. “My firsts don’t matter. And neither do yours.”
“Of course they do,” he protests, stopping in front of her and planting his hands on either side of her. “Why else would there be so much written about them? So much magic found in the idea?”
She rolls her eyes, lips still smiling.
Oh, how dramatic he is.
Oh, how she loves him so.
“No,” she says, taking his face into her hands, “it really doesn’t. Do you know why?”
He frowns down at her, but shakes his head rather than argue further.
His hands move from the countertop to her elbows, to her wrists, to cover her hands with his own. He presses his cheek into her skin, eyes closed like he’s trying to memorize the feeling, like he hasn’t felt her hands on him everyday for the last four years of his life.
“Because,” she whispers, quiet and fond, “you have something far more valuable.”
His eyes open and the great affection she sees there makes her stomach swoop, makes her chest ache with how much she loves this beautiful, caring, ridiculous man.
“And what is that?” he whispers to her, lips brushing against the delicate skin of her wrist and Marinette shivers.
“My Lasts, dear Husband,” she answers, “and every In Between from now until then. Every kiss and date and all my love.” She kisses him then, soft and sweet and when she pulls away it’s to grin up at him, victory playing at the corners of her mouth. “And those are far more precious than a half-forgotten memory that didn’t even last, don’t you think?”