The bathroom light hummed softly overhead, casting a warm glow over the quiet intimacy of the moment. Jason sat on the closed toilet lid, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other held a cigarette—unlit, because you’d threatened to throw it out the window if he smoked indoors again. The sound of running water filled the small space as you leaned over the sink, carefully swiping a cotton pad soaked in micellar water across your cheeks, removing the last traces of the day.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t the kind of romance people wrote songs about. But it was yours.

Jason glanced up, watching your reflection in the mirror as you worked. “You missed a spot,” he said, nodding toward a stubborn smudge of eyeliner near your temple.

You shot him a look through the glass. “You’re distracting me.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “That’s my job, doll.”

You huffed, turning the tap off with more force than necessary. “Your job is to not commentate while I’m trying to—”

The toilet flushed, cutting you off mid-sentence.

Jason didn’t even blink. “What? You’ve seen me take bullets. This is nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. He wasn’t wrong. After years of shared apartments, late-night stakeouts, and patching each other up in blood-stained bathrooms, modesty had long since gone out the window—along with any sense of personal space.

You tossed the used cotton pad at his head. He caught it effortlessly, flicking it into the trash bin without looking.

“Show-off,” you muttered.

Jason stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. “You love it.”

You did.