I go completely still.
So does she.
We're both holding our breath. The razor pressed against my throat. Her hand trembling slightly.
"It's okay," I say quietly. "Just go slow. I trust you."
The words come out before I can stop them.
And they're true.
I do trust her. With a blade at my throat. With my vulnerability. With this moment.
The razor moves. A soft scrape. The cream and stubble coming away clean.
"Like that," I say. "Keep going."
She makes another stroke. Then another. Her hand is steadier now. Finding rhythm. Building confidence with each pass of the blade.
I can feel her breath on my face. Warm. Uneven.
The intimacy of the moment settles over me. Me between her legs. My hands resting on her thighs. Her fingers on my face. The blade scraping away foam and hair with careful precision.
"Why did you come back?" I ask.
The razor pauses. "What?"
"After I threw the plate. You came back. Why?"
Silence. The razor doesn't move. I can feel her thinking. Choosing her words.
"I was worried about you," she says finally. Quiet. Honest. "I could sense that you did it out of frustration. That you didn't mean it."
The words warm my chest.
She came back because she was worried. Not because she had to. Not because it was her job. Because she cared.
"I'm sorry," I say. Mean it. "For what I did. For speaking to you that way."
The razor moves again. Careful. Precise. "I accept your apology."
Her voice is softer now. Some of the distance gone.
We're quiet for a moment. Just the sound of the blade, the water dripping from the tap, our breathing.
"Who hurt you?"
Her hand stills. I can feel the tension in her body. The way she's holding herself.
"No lies, Lily."
She takes a breath. "My business. I can handle it."
I make a low sound in my throat. Acknowledgment without agreement.
Her hand moves again. Shaving my upper lip now. Slow. Concentrated. The blade scraping close to my nose.
I reach up. Find her forehead. The bandage still there. Still protecting whatever wound someone gave her.
