Charlie sits on the edge of your bed, blinking up at you as you rub cleanser between your palms.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” he asks, already pink in the cheeks.

“Yes,” you say, stepping between his knees. “You have great skin. Let’s keep it that way.”

He tries not to smile as you gently apply the cleanser to his face, your fingers cool and careful. His lashes flutter.

“This feels weird,” he mumbles.

“This feels nice,” you correct, massaging in small circles.

He hums under his breath, eyes half-lidded now, completely relaxed.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Told you.”

And when you swipe toner across his cheekbones and dab moisturizer on his nose, he watches you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever seen.

“You like taking care of me,” he says, almost shy.

You pause, smile warm. “I do.”

His voice goes quiet. “I like it.”

So you keep going — slow, gentle, and full of love — because his face is in your hands, and for once, he lets himself feel safe.