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For a while, all their kisses count as shy. Truthfully, Mikasa is fine with that. She's not in any hurry, and doesn't think Jean is, either. Jean doesn’t push, there's no pressure; they can take things at their own pace, take it slow, take it sweet. And it is very sweet—everything seems to be sweet, with them. It gets her all fluttery inside when he peppers her cheeks with kisses, when she eases herself in that space between his arm and his ribs where she fits oh-so-perfectly, when their hands find each other and their fingers interlock just because; in the kitchen, beneath the dinner table so Connie won’t tease them (not that Mikasa particularly cares about that), under the shade of the willow by the pond, at the village market, in the bedroom.
It is all so, so sweet that it actually borders on blissful, and Mikasa wouldn’t change it for the world. So they’re slow, and they’re shy, after getting past the exhilaration of that first time, the blind euphoria of it all. And it’s good, going slow, giving herself time to get used to this sort of touch, this sort of intimacy again.
It’s just, sometimes. Sometimes it’s like Jean is moving at her pace, and Mikasa is moving at his pace, but she thinks that maybe, their pace might just be a little faster than what they’ve been set on, because sometimes—most times, lately—when Jean kisses her softly, gently, sweetly, it’s enough to make her knees weak and spark up something at the pit of her stomach. He’ll always pull back just before it can catch, and, frankly, Mikasa wishes he wouldn’t.
Tonight they’re doing dishes, or rather, he finished doing the dishes while she went to bathe Hideki and put him to sleep after dinner, and now she’s just sitting on the counter waiting for him to finish drying and stacking up the plates and glasses in the cupboard, ankles crossed and dangling slightly as if she were on a swing.
“You’re spoiling me, you know,” Mikasa sighs contently, chancing a stealthy glance at the skin exposed by his half buttoned shirt. It’s summertime, the night feels warm, the crickets are singing outside. She’s wearing a short sleeved dress, light fabric bunched up at her thigh so she can pluck out loose threads at the hem while she keeps him company.
Jean snorts out a laugh, but doesn’t look up from his task. He has a teacup held up contemplatively on one hand, inspecting its state as he taps it dry with the other. He’s always extra careful with Levi’s porcelain. “How so?”
“Well, you cooked tonight,” she explains, leaning back on the palms of her hands, the wood creaking softly beneath her at the shift of her weight. “And then I left all the plates for you to scrub.”
“Hm,” he raises his brows as if considering, “the way I remember it, Hideki splashed soup all over himself and you had to wash him and the table linen.”
“Levi does always say to use cold water right away to prevent the stains,” Mikasa recalls, dutifully. “Especially if it’s tomato; we wouldn’t want orange spots on the cloth,” she shakes her head solemnly.
“So unsightly,” he says, with the best imitation of Levi's voice he can muster—which is terrible, and would definitely earn him glare (or a hard kick to the shin, more like) if Levi were home. “It’s the least I could do, really,” Jean shrugs. “Unless you planned everything so I’d have no choice but to clean up after your mess.”
Mikasa grins, tilting her head. “And if I did?”
“Oh, what a wicked woman you are.”
“Now I feel terrible,” she fawns, playing along. “How could I ever make this up to you?”
“Let me keep more than one third of the blankets tonight and we’re even.”
“You’re the one who steals them,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m just stealing them back.”
“Alright, then,” he says, and doesn’t sound convinced at all, “you can compensate me with one kiss.” Mikasa can tell he's a little self-conscious of his request because he doesn’t look up when he speaks, instead turning his back to put the cup in its rightful place on the bottom shelf.
“Now?” Mikasa chirps, stupidly eager, but she can’t really find it in herself to be abashed.
His lips twitch upwards, but he keeps himself busy with adjusting his sleeves around his forearms. “To be redeemed at a time of my choosing.”
Part of her twinges with disappointment, and she glances at the floor as she inches back a little on the counter to watch him as he works. Slow and sweet can be a little torturous, she thinks, not ungratefully, but another part of her—deeper, hopeful—thinks he might request the kiss later in the night, once they have retired to the bedroom, and it makes her skin sizzle with excitement. “Okay,” she shrugs, fighting her smile, and Jean resumes his work, the soft clinking of wood and porcelain filling the comfortable silence between them.
He takes his time dabbing the porcelain thoroughly, seemingly lost in thought. Jean has nice hands, Mikasa notes distractedly, not for the first time. Large palms, littered with tiny scars and calluses, and long, pretty fingers, wide nails clipped short. They’re hands that have held blades and guts, like her own, hands that have fought. But they’re also hands that cradle teacups carefully, and work painting brushes swiftly; hands that build homes and brush the knots in her hair for her when she’s tired. Hands that rest so very perfectly on her cheeks, and her back, or her hips, when he’s feeling bolder. Such nice hands, Mikasa thinks, wistfully.
“Actually, forget what I said,” Jean suddenly announces, clearing his throat as he closes the cupboard’s doors. “I want that kiss now.”
Mikasa smiles up at him, attempting to look enticing. There’s a moment in which they seem to be unsure on whether she should get to her feet or if he should just come closer. Mikasa makes the choice by pulling him between her knees by the hem of his shirt and thinks herself very clever for doing so, because she doesn’t think she would have been able to stand straight on them when their lips brush against each other.
“Take it, then,” she says, airily, as if her heart isn’t pounding.
It’s very modest, the way he cups her jaw, almost enough to be chaste, if she couldn’t feel that hunger hiding beneath it as he tightens his hold just slightly. A thrill crackles down her spine, and before he can pull away, Mikasa steals a hand and brings it up to his neck to secure their mouths together, chasing the spark and letting it ignite her, ignite him, ignite them both.
Jean’s teeth find the flesh of her bottom lip, and the gentle nibbling makes her brave; she takes the hand resting lightly on her hip and presses it to her ribcage just above her waist. Those pretty fingers flex and hesitate for a moment, and then they brush along the undersides of her breast fleetingly before he tears away from her, pressing his lips together tightly.
Mikasa feels a little lightheaded as she gasps for air, the world spinning delightfully. His eyes search her face as she works her fingers into his shirt and holds him close to her. It’s so very warm between them, in that spot right where their bodies meet, the heat seeping through the layers of their clothing. She’s suddenly very aware of the tightness just below her navel, growing harder and harder to bear. She jerks her knees a little as if to press them together, and the motion ends up only pressing her core closer to him, which, honestly, is much better, and she just wishes there weren’t so many damn layers.
It’s not the most adequate place, she thinks, but very pointedly does not say. They could stop, like they usually do, take it slow, take it easy, go to bed and hope for one of them to find their courage again later.
But the sight of him right now is so sweet that she can’t stand even the thought of suggesting that; Mikasa thinks if she could keep him like this forever, all messy hair and swollen lips and panting breaths, she would.
“You, uh,” she starts, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks, but she still smiles up at him. A little nervous, a little pleased. "We don't have to stop just yet."
“Oh,” Jean blinks.
“Oh,” she nods, mock-bewildered, in an attempt to lighten their moods.
It works. He laughs at her expression, affectionately, brushing the tip of his nose against hers before he kisses her again oh so sweetly, except this time a little harder, deeper, more passionate. Fire catches in her blood, stroked by the heat radiating from him in waves, and she feels that desire, that hunger, and she can feel it in him too, springing up behind those so very controlled movements.
In an impetuous and brazen decision, she takes Jean’s wrist and pulls him to her inner thigh. His hands are still cool from the water, and the contrast with her blazing skin makes her shiver all over. She glances up at him from beneath her lashes, as if to make sure he understands her intentions. He stares at her, watching for any sign of protest in her features as his fingers advance beneath her skirt slowly, almost torturously, and Mikasa takes his face in her hands and promptly fits her mouth to his again.
He breaks away just long enough to ask, “Is this okay?”
“I put it there for a reason,” she manages, commanding herself not to blush.
“Oh,” he whispers, hinting at a smile.
“Oh,” she whispers back aganist his lips, pulling him closer.
Their kiss begins almost timidly, this time. But it doesn't end that way.