Rude sits on the stool in front of you, his broad shoulders relaxed but his spine still straight. He remains silent as you run the razor carefully over his scalp, dragging slow, deliberate strokes over the smooth skin. The faint rasp of metal against flesh is the only sound between you. You’re one of the only people Rude would ever let so close to him with a blade.

When you’re nearly finished, Rude reaches up, his fingers closing gently around your wrist, stilling you for just a moment. Then, with careful precision, he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse point, his lips warm against your skin. “Thank you,” he rumbles softly.