He wasn’t the kind to say I love you. Not directly. Not even indirectly, most days. But today, he let you sit on the closed toilet seat while he showered—his silhouette half-blurred behind the glass, steam curling through the room like silk.

His voice cut through the quiet, calm and clinical.

—“You’re using the wrong exfoliator, by the way. Your pores will never clear that way.”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure if that was meant to be criticism or care.

He kept going, rinsing his hair with precision.

—“In the morning, use the green tea toner. Nighttime’s for retinol. And never skip moisturizer. You skip moisturizer, you might as well never look in the mirror again.”

He sounded detached, mechanical—like reading off a list. But then, between lathering and rinsing, he added:

—“I keep an extra bottle under the sink. The one I use.”

That made you blink. Because Patrick Bateman never shared his products. Not with anyone.

Not unless it meant something.

And as he turned off the water and stepped out, reaching for the towel without looking at you, he muttered low:

—“Next time, I’ll show you how to do the mask right.”

He didn’t say I love you. But this? This was close enough.