"Hold still. I don't want to accidentally knick you or something."

You're settled comfortably on the bathroom counter, Frank's chin cradled carefully between your thumb and forefinger as the other hand holds steadily onto a razor.

He was getting ready to shave the beard he'd grown over the course of last month; He hasn't had time to get to it sooner, with all the killing and what have you.

You asked if you could do it.

He thought, 'why the hell not'?

Frank kinda regrets it now.

This is... nerve wracking.

"Stop looking like I'm going to slit your throat."

You scold your boyfriend, who's staring you down like you're a suspect and he's Columbo.

"Can you blame me?"

Frank grumbles, holding still with a tense air about him. His hand grips the edge of the countertop to keep himself from jolting or flinching.

He knows you won't hurt him.

He trusts you.

In fact, he trusts you more than he's trusted anyone in longer than he could remember.

But old habits die hard, and he can't help but feel a pang of paranoia in a situation like this. He's always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's hard for him to turn that off.