a/n: requests will be open throughout the summer! feel free to drop by anytime
“Twenty minutes?”
The usual rich, unwavering timbre of authority and complete control of Wolffe’s voice is instead replaced with a strained half-whine half-plea as he squeezes his eyes shut. Brought low by, of all things, a sheet mask.
“You have to keep it on for twenty minutes,” you affirm from the bedside as you crumple the sheet mask sachet into your palm, squeezing out what dregs of watery serum remain into your hand. As artfully as you possibly can, you scoop a generous heap of the fragrant gel with your fingertips and smear it into the thin sheet pressed over Wolffe’s skin. “Corvis has the comms and Sinker and Wildfire are doing your paperwork, so you, commander, are stuck with me.”
“And I have to stay still the whole time,” he repeats flatly.
“Unless you want serum on your blacks. And stop scrunching; you’ll get wrinkles.” You reach up to the crease between his brows, rubbing insistently until he relaxes and peeks up at you with an uncertain expression.
“Y/n I feel like a corpse,” Wolffe mutters. And to some extent, he is right, lying ramrod straight on his back with his hands clasped at his navel, stone-still save for the occasional restless twitch of his fingers. But he’s also being dramatic (oh woe, relaxation).
“Lucky corpse,” you quip, trailing your fingers over the bridge of his nose to smooth over the dark lines of exhaustion etched into the skin of his undereyes. “I’m pretty sure most living people never get to try Corellian heartleaf extract, much less corpses.”
For all his restless graces, you don’t miss how his cheeks twitch at your remark in a floundering attempt to smother the smile under your touch. He looks a bit silly, his eyes and mouth bordered by a stark ring of white silk and gleaming almost comically under the thick layer of serum. But it’s easy to look past the spectacle; you can still make out the proud line of his jaw, his dark lashes, and the somewhat artificial distress in his deep brown eyes as you feel him shiver delightfully under your touch.
Still handsome, you think as you massage your fingertips over his temples, but just a little silly.
“You think I look ridiculous, don’t you,” Wolffe mumbles, grimacing when you laugh.
“Just a little bit,” you admit, and you laugh a bit brighter when Wolffe rolls his eyes. “But it’s cute. You’re cute. Your skin’s going to look fantastic tomorrow, too.”
“Cyar’ika,” Wolffe huffs, the unmistakable lilt of laughter lifting his tone. “Aren’t I usually the one calling you cute?”
“I’m just calling it how I see it,” you smile, and the warmth in your chest blooms with fluttering strength anew when you open your eyes to catch Wolffe’s gaze, soft ease and fond (reluctant) admission that maybe the whole song and dance of skincare was nice after all. It’s that kind of expectant look, as close to pleading puppydog eyes as humanly possible over Wolffe’s near perpetual scowl, but it’s your sure signal that the good commander’s last defenses have been lowered: that you’re not only welcome but very much anticipated.
You take your invitation like a prize and lean down to press a quick kiss over Wolffe’s lips, careful and chaste so not to smear mask gel over you, too.
But it’s not enough, one kiss is never enough, and you lean down over his bedside again, capturing Wolffe’s lips with yours. You tilt your head, murmuring happily into his touch, and you’re so enthralled by this, by him, that you can only vaguely register the weight curling at the base of your neck as the commander’s hand cupped over your skin and pulling you closer.
You only pull away, yelping at the sudden shock of cool gel on your skin when you eagerly press a bit too close and brush up against the mask over Wolffe’s nose. You certainly hadn’t intended it, but it’s cheesy and sweet and it has Wolffe's eyes fluttering shut as he laughs softly, the burdens and obligations of today and tomorrow far out of your mind’s eye. It’s the little things, you concede, and you dip close for one last kiss.
“Cute,” Wolffe muses dark eyes deep and warm, and you realize the only downside to sheet masks is that you can’t jump his bones at that very moment without putting to waste your handiwork. You touch the tip of your nose to Wolffe’s, and his low chuckle resonates through your chest.
“Hey, y/n!” Boost calls into the barracks, Warthog and Comet in tow, and you hastily sit upright, wiping the mask gel from your nose as you catch the boys tossing their buckets onto their bunks. “Can we get one too?”
You open your mouth to tell him there’s plenty to go around, more than happy to pamper the good brothers of your beloved battalion. But Wolffe is faster.
“Not a chance,” Wolffe calls out.
“Wolffe,” you protest, seeing how his brothers suddenly stiffen and exchange awkward glances among themselves. You’re ready to rally the boys to your defense of a batallion spa day when you feel his arm loop around your waist, tugging you close.
