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it was rare for vincent to ever be this quiet.
the night was old and the day was young; evident in the dawn blooming with lilacs and indigos that spread across the five-am sky. the crooning song of a cardinal echoed from far-off, heralding the gradual crescendo of the city waking up.
a cool, spring-bitten breeze wafts in through the open windows and past the fluttering curtains of your shared apartment, seemingly bringing the muffled crackle of vincent’s old gramophone closer to where you stood in the bathroom.
“you’re too quiet,” you murmur, slowly bringing the straight razor down the left side of his jaw, careful not to nick him with the blade. “somethin’ on your mind?”
vincent responds with a distracted hum. whether it was in agreement or denial, you aren’t quite sure. he was seated on the lid of the john, dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt that fit quite nicely against the lean curve of his shoulders and was tucked neatly into his pressed slacks.
his glasses lay folded on the counter of the sink next to the two of you, yet his nearsighted vision posed no hurdle for the unmistakable tenderness in his gaze. mismatched irises study every slope and angle of your face, despite having memorised it enough times he could sketch every feature blind.
you furrow your brow and pause, breathing out a chuckle. “what?”
“nothing.” he shifts you closer between his knees, hands unintentionally bunching up the silk of your dressing gown at the waist. “go on.”
you roll your eyes at the order, and vincent continues to look up at you adoringly as you resume your somewhat methodical ministrations.
the comfortable silence returns, save for a faint love song spinning on the record in your living room and the perpetual scrape upon his chin. vincent’s eyes threaten to flutter shut, but he forces them open, almost as if he couldn’t bear to go one moment without looking at you.
it’s almost romantic, you think, as the tip of the razor ghosts over his pulse, how a murderer is willingly letting you hold a blade against his throat.
with a final flourish, the last wisps of yesterday’s five o’clock shadow disappear. at the sound of the faucet squeaking open and the warmth that vanished with your touch, he blinks dazedly and mumbles, “done already?”
“all done, honey,” you answer patiently, wiping the razor under the steady stream of water. once you set it aside, you reach for a washcloth and begin towelling off his face.
a small frown settles on his face and you laugh again. “what? wanted me to keep going?”
he burrows his cheek further into the towel. “yes.”
with a resigned yet entirely endeared sigh, you pat away the residues of shaving cream from his face. “there you go, you big baby.”
vincent snorts at that. he lets you step back before he stands up from the toilet seat, gently planting his hands on your waist to move you to the side so he could peer at himself in the mirror.
“mmm.” he observes, stroking the skin around his neck to scrutinise your handiwork. “not bad.”
“maybe if you tried letting your stubble grow on a weekend, i could spoil you longer with the shave,” you retort snarkily, bumping him with your hip to make room in front of the sink.
“hey-!” he yelps out a laugh at the impact, nearly losing balance, then stubbornly squeezes himself back into your side with a click of his tongue. vincent leans down and wraps his arms around your stomach, delightedly brushing his now-smooth cheek against yours. “you prefer me clean shaven, anyway. don’t you, baby?”
you reach up, letting your hand wander up the left side of his face as he presses a swift kiss to your temple. “now that, i won’t deny,” you giggle, turning to meet his lips halfway.
vincent hums happily into your mouth, tilting his head to pull you in closer. your hands find his chest, and his trail up to cradle your hair, affectionately sweeping it over your neck, where his touch lands not soon after.
“thank you, sweetheart,” he tenderly mumbles against your lips, pulling away slightly to thumb at your jaw. his other hand slides down to the small of your back.
“always.” you tiptoe to kiss the tip of his nose, then his cheek. “coffee?”
behind where he stood in the bathroom doorway, the early morning sun streams into your home, illuminating it in the same soft gold that tinted the summer you first fell in love with vincent whittman.
“you already know, babe.”