few days’ worth of stubble darkening his usually clean-shaven face. It was already 10 PM — too late, too tired — but routine was routine. He muttered something under his breath as he turned on the faucet, sleeves pushed up, razor in hand.

You were off to the side, dabbing toner onto your skin, wrapped in the comfort of your nightly ritual. Your eyes flicked to him through the mirror. The dark grey t-shirt he wore clung to his frame too well for your tired brain not to notice. He looked effortlessly good — like always.

As he started applying the shaving cream with practiced swipes, you paused.

“Can I try?” you asked suddenly, turning toward him, voice light but curious. “It looks kinda fun.”

Toji side-eyed you, raising a brow. “What, shaving my face?”

“Yeah,” you shrugged, grinning. “C’mon. Let me.”

He studied you for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. With a sigh that wasn’t really a sigh, he leaned back slightly and handed you the razor, his voice low and a little amused. “Don’t cut me.”