The bathroom hums with warmth, steam curling along the mirror. George stands shirtless at the sink, a towel slung low on his hips, face half-covered in shaving cream. He drags the razor along his jaw with practiced ease, ginger hair still tousled from sleep.

You pause in the doorway, quiet, watching him. He catches your reflection in the mirror and smiles.

“Morning, love,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, eyes soft.

You step in without a word, pulling yourself up onto the counter beside him. He sets the razor down, stepping between your legs like it's second nature. His hands come to rest upon your hips and he leans closer trailing kisses up your jaw, smearing foam against your skin.

"I want to try," you whisper, looking to his razor.

He looks at you for a moment—then places the razor gently into your hand, his fingers brushing yours.

“Don’t nick me. I’m far too handsome to scar,” he adds with a grin, tilting his chin up.

His hands rest at your thighs, steady and warm as you begin to shave him—slow, careful strokes. His gaze never leaves yours.