The Razor Stays Dry

The bathroom light was too honest for seven in the morning.

Ethan stood with one hand braced on the sink, watching his own face through a film of sleep and steam that wasn’t there. He had showered at Clara’s enough times that the room had begun to feel like a borrowed version of home–the same pale tile, the same faint scent of citrus cleaner, the same towel folded with a sharpness that suggested someone had once been scolded for doing it wrong.

He reached for the razor because that was what his hands did when his brain was still catching up.

The handle was damp-cool against his fingers. He ran it under the tap, listened to the rush of water, and tilted his chin up.

And then he paused.

Not because he was distracted. Not because he forgot.

Because there was almost nothing to shave.

It was the kind of absence that made you blink twice and lean in, searching for the thing you were certain had been there yesterday. A faint shadow still lived along his upper lip, the suggestion of hair at the corners of his mouth, but his jaw–his jaw was smooth. Not freshly shaved smooth. Smooth like a photo filter that had been applied when you weren’t watching.

He dragged the razor once, experimentally, down the line where stubble usually fought back.

The blade moved without resistance.

Ethan frowned, then drew it again, more firmly this time, expecting the familiar scratch. Still nothing. The sound of it was wrong too–too quiet, like shaving on a day when your beard hadn’t shown up for work.

He rinsed the razor, held it up to the light. Clean.

A small, ridiculous thought surfaced: Maybe I’m just losing my mind.

His eyes flicked to the mirror again, to the face that was undeniably his–same dark brows, same slightly crooked nose from a childhood fall, the faint scar at his hairline he always forgot existed until he caught it under a harsh angle. Yet the skin beneath his jaw looked… calmer. Less angry. Less rough.

He pressed his fingertips against his chin.

The sensation surprised him. Not unpleasant. Just unfamiliar.

There were men who would have celebrated it. Men who hated shaving, who cursed their morning routines. Ethan had been one of them, in an absent way. He’d complained about razors and forgotten to replace blades and once nicked himself badly enough that Clara had dabbed his chin with tissue and laughed, calling him helpless.

But this wasn’t relief.

This was… displacement.

He stared at himself another beat, then forced his mouth into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Probably nothing,” he murmured, because saying it out loud made it real enough to endure.

He put the razor back where it belonged. Clara’s bathroom was orderly in a way his never was; everything had a place, a purpose, a little sense of ceremony. Even the toothbrushes–hers and his–stood upright in a holder, aligned like soldiers. His was the one with the blue band around the handle, chosen because it was the only one she had that didn’t look too much like hers.

His.

It still felt strange, having things at her place that existed because he existed.

He washed his hands and patted his face dry with her towel. The fabric was soft, almost too soft, and it left his skin feeling different–like it held onto warmth longer than it should.

When he stepped out, Clara’s apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint, distant whisper of traffic from the street below. Morning light spilled in through the living room windows, turning the pale furniture edges into clean lines.

The kitchen smelled like something toasted.

Clara was there, hair gathered into a loose clip at the back of her head. She wore one of Ethan’s old T-shirts–his, but softened by the way it hung off her shoulder–and a pair of shorts that were almost definitely hers. She moved around the kitchen with the easy confidence of someone who had lived alone long enough to stop thinking of it as loneliness.

A mug sat on the counter already.

Not a mug.

His mug.

It was a simple thing, cream-coloured with a faint crackle pattern. Clara had declared it his the second week he started staying over regularly.

“This one suits you,” she’d said, pushing it into his hands as if the ceramic had always been waiting for him.

Now it waited again, placed exactly where he would reach without having to ask.

“Morning,” Clara said without looking up, voice warm with sleep but already steady.

“Morning.” Ethan walked closer, letting the smell of toast and something floral settle in his lungs. “You’re up early.”

“You always say that.” Clara turned then, leaning back against the counter. Her gaze swept over him in a single, unhurried pass–face, hair, shoulders–before it softened into a smile.

“You look rested,” she said.

The words hit the same place his razor had.

Ethan blinked. “Do I?”

Clara nodded, as if it were obvious. She reached up and brushed her thumb lightly along his cheek.

Ethan froze, not because the touch was unwelcome–Clara was affectionate in small, careful ways–but because the contact highlighted what he’d just noticed in the mirror.

Her thumb slid over smooth skin.

Her eyes lingered.

Something in Ethan tightened, a quiet little coil of discomfort. He forced himself to relax it before it showed.

“Maybe it’s your bed,” he joked, trying to make the moment light. “My place is a disaster.”

Clara’s laugh was soft. “My bed is fine. You’re the one who actually sleeps when you’re here.”

“Yeah,” he said, and heard the strain he didn’t mean to put into the word.

Clara tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It came out too quickly.

She didn’t call him out. Clara rarely did in a direct way. She simply shifted closer, fingers slipping briefly into his hair.

Ethan’s scalp prickled. Her touch was gentle, as if she were smoothing something down that might otherwise fray.

“Sit,” she said. “Eat. I made toast.”

He obeyed because it was easier than inventing a reason not to.

Clara set a plate down in front of him: toast with a thin sheen of butter and something dark that looked like jam. Beside it, his mug waited, steam rising in slow curls.

Tea.

He hadn’t asked for tea. He didn’t even particularly like tea.

But Clara had started making it for him months ago, calling it calming.

“You always breathe better after this,” she’d said once, pressing the cup into his hands when he’d complained about a stressful week.

Ethan had laughed then, because it sounded like one of those wellness tips people posted online.

But it was warm.

And Clara looked pleased.

So he drank.

Now, he wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into his palms. The fragrance was mild, a faint sweetness beneath something herbal.

“Thanks,” he said.

Clara sat across from him, tucking one leg beneath her. “You didn’t sleep well at your place again, did you?”

Ethan shrugged. “I slept.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Her tone was teasing, but her eyes remained attentive.

Ethan broke off a piece of toast, chewed slowly. “I had a weird dream.”

Clara’s brows lifted. “About what?”

Ethan hesitated. It wasn’t the kind of dream you told someone over breakfast. Not because it was obscene or terrifying, but because it had been… disorienting.

In the dream, he’d been looking into a mirror and seeing a face that resembled his but wasn’t quite his. The same eyes, the same mouth, but softer. The jawline blurred. The hair longer.

He’d woken with his heart racing, as if he’d been caught impersonating himself.

Ethan forced a shrug. “Nothing. Just… nonsense.”

Clara’s gaze stayed on him a second longer than necessary.

Then she smiled. “You’ve been carrying too much lately.”

Ethan exhaled through his nose. “Have I?”

“Yes.” Clara reached across the table and rested her fingers lightly on the back of his hand.

The contact was soft, reassuring.

It should have soothed him.

Instead, the memory of the razor hovered at the edge of his mind. The blade moving too easily. The mirror looking too calm.

Ethan swallowed.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Clara’s thumb stroked once over his knuckles.

“Good,” she said. “Then eat.”

He did.

The jam tasted sweeter than expected, almost floral. He sipped the tea and felt the warmth slide down his throat. It settled in his chest like a small weight, not heavy enough to alarm him, just present.

Clara watched him drink, then looked away to rinse a dish in the sink.

The sound of running water filled the kitchen.

Ethan stared down at his mug.

The crackle pattern on the ceramic looked like tiny fractures frozen in place.

He set it down carefully, as if it might break if he moved too quickly.

“By the way,” Clara said over the water, “I booked us that café you wanted to try. Saturday.”

Ethan blinked. “I mentioned that once.”

“You mention a lot of things once.” She turned off the tap, dried her hands with a towel. “It doesn’t mean I don’t hear you.”

The sweetness in her voice should have been enough to melt his unease.

Ethan managed a smile. “You’re… really good at this.”

“At what?” Clara asked, already knowing.

“At–” He gestured vaguely at the apartment, the breakfast, the mug waiting, the way she made space for him without making it feel like an intrusion. “At making things feel… easy.”

Clara’s expression softened, and for a moment she looked almost shy.

“I like taking care of you,” she said.

Simple.

True, in the way she meant it.

Ethan’s throat tightened anyway.

He finished his tea, set the mug down. His hands lingered on the warm ceramic.

Clara leaned against the counter, watching him with a quiet, satisfied calm.

Ethan couldn’t have said why, but something in that look made him want to stand up and check his face again. Check his jaw. Check his chest under his shirt.

As if his body might have changed while he sat there eating toast.

He pushed the thought away and reached for another piece.

The morning continued.

Clara talked about her week. Ethan nodded, laughed in the right places, answered questions with half-truths that sounded like normal answers. He let the apartment’s comfort wrap around him.

And yet, every so often, his fingers drifted toward his chin without permission.

Smooth.

Too smooth.

Outside the window, the city moved on as if nothing had shifted.

Ethan told himself it was nothing.

He told himself a lot of things lately.

When he left Clara’s place later, the air in the corridor felt colder than it should have. He walked toward the lift with his bag slung over one shoulder, the taste of tea still faint on his tongue.

Clara stood at the door, barefoot, watching him.

“Text me when you get home,” she said.

“I always do.”

“I know.” She smiled. “Still. Text me.”

Ethan nodded, then hesitated.

A question rose in him, shapeless and uncomfortable.

He didn’t ask it.

Clara stepped closer and kissed his cheek. Her lips were warm. Her hand slid briefly into his hair, fingertips combing through it like she was confirming it was still there.

“You’re going to be fine,” she murmured.

Ethan forced a laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

Clara’s smile didn’t falter.

“It’s not,” she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it. “It’s just true.”

The lift doors opened with a soft chime.

Ethan stepped inside, turned to face her as the doors began to close.

Clara raised her hand in a small wave.

Her expression was affectionate.

Normal.

The doors slid shut.

Ethan stared at his reflection in the metal panel.

For a second, the fluorescent light made his face look unfamiliar–too smooth, too calm.

He reached up, touched his jaw.

No stubble.

The lift descended.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought he refused to name pressed gently against the walls of his denial, looking for a crack.