I reach for the towel first, then pause. “May I?”
The question lands between us, small but necessary.
His eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
I use the edge of the towel to wipe away a streak of foam near his jaw, then take the razor from his hand. His fingers release it without argument.
The locker room feels quieter than it did a moment ago. Not silent. There are sounds from the station beyond the door, the low movement of people working, a laugh from somewhere near the bay, the distant clatter of equipment. But in here, everything narrows to the angle of his jaw and the careful space between us.
“Hold still,” I say.
“I am.”
“You’re breathing like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release.”
“I’ve recently experienced a significant loss. The beard and I were close.”
I lift his chin with two fingers.
I mean to do it briskly.
Professionally.
I mostly manage.
His skin is warm under my touch. Slightly damp. Newly smooth where the beard has been. I draw the razor once, carefully, along the edge beneath his jaw.
He goes very still.
“There,” I say.
It comes out quieter than intended.
I wipe the last of the foam away with the towel.
For a second, neither of us moves.
His eyes are locked on me. Not with the quick, polished confidence he has been using as armour all morning. This is different. More direct. Less practised.
My hand is still near his jaw.
I lower it.
Step back.
“There,” I say again, because I have become a woman with limited vocabulary. “You’ll get a better seal now.”
His throat moves.
“Good.”
I hand him the razor.
Our fingers brush.
A tiny thing.
