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“I’m grateful just the same,” he says, and he unlaces himself out of his trousers. That always takes a minute, the loops parting bit by bit to reveal his braies and his sweaty thighs.

"Then I can tell you that I'm grateful for you, Clive. For taking care of us."

And letting her watch him undress whenever she pleases. Truly, a gift.

He beams at her, stepping out of his trousers and dropping them aside with the rest, nude save for his socks and braies, the latter of which sits so sloppily on his hips that they reveal dark hair trailing upwards. He smiles.

“I’ll shower quickly, then, so I can be with you sooner.”

His smile still makes her heart stutter. At the mention of a shower, she steps forward with a click of her tongue, hands setting on his hips.

"Let me trim your hair before you wash it." Less shedding in their bed.

Before? He’s never done more than lazily take a knife to it, but she’s tended to his mop of hair enough over the years to trust her judgment.

“Where do you want me, then?”

The fact that his hair is a happy mess on a good day is why Jill feels comfortable to give it a trim at all. Unless she takes out a good chunk, it's nearly impossible to mess it up.

She takes his hand to lead him to the bathroom.

"Just a trim," she promises. "It's getting long. I like seeing your face and it's been getting in my way."

He follows, his gaze drifting down her arm to settle on his hand in hers, and he curls his fingers around hers in turn. His heart swells.

“Just as long as you keep the ugly part hidden,” he says, mildly joking. “And if you are to look at me, I’d sooner have a trim than start tying it back…”

"No part of your face is ugly," she tells him, having him stand with his back towards the sink and mirror. She cups that scarred cheek with a smile. "I'd cut your hair shorter if you'd let me."

He makes an amused sound under his breath, resting his weight against the counter’s edge and letting his head fall forward, sinking the weight of his cheek into her hand.

“Perhaps someday,” he says. “And as long as it grows out before we go home.”

Her smile grows, thumb brushing over the edges of his scar.

"I hardly see this when I look at you, you know," she tells him, full of fondness. "I'm glad to live in a place where you don't need to hide."

“It still gets looks,” he remarks. This house is the only place it doesn’t, and his eyes droop closed lazily just so he can focus on the sensation of her skin on his — where it passes over living nerve and drifts into dead space and back. “Fortunately your opinion is the only one that matters, at the end of the day.”

"And I'm of the opinion that you are the most handsome man there ever was," she says, to the surprise of none. "I thought so even when this wound was fresh."

He chuffs quietly, and opens his eyes again just enough to gaze into her eyes.

“To think I could end up with such a beauty, who could see so much at me even at my lowest,” he murmurs.

Jill steps closer to press a kiss to his cheek, right upon the scar. Being that close reminds her that he needs to bathe, and before that, she needs to tame that mop of hair. She pulls back just enough to reach around him for the scissors.

"I'll trim the front just a little shorter," she tells him, running her fingers through the hair that falls on his forehead. "You'll hardly notice the difference."

But she will.

He can't even smell himself anymore, he just likes being close.

"Only as much as you need to," he says, and he holds his head straight just so it doesn't end up weird.

"I know. Don't worry. Close your eyes, Clive." So she doesn't cut his long lashes or get bits of hair in his eyes. She pulls his hair forward, lining up the scissors and slowly cutting across. She does a second pass with the tips of the blades, thinning his hair out more around his eyes.

She hums in approval before running her fingers through another section so she can trim the entire length.

Clive does as he's told, closing his eyes, or at least lowering them enough that he can still look down, eyes settling on her chest as she works. It's relaxing, feeling the gentle tug on his scalp as she moves his hair around between her fingers, watching little tufts of dark hair fall between them, some making it all the way to the floor.

"I wore it shorn short for a while," he murmurs. "I never liked it that way."

"Good to keep lice away, but I think longer hair suits you best. But not too long," she teases, snipping here and there. A shower will clean him of the bits of hair and she'll sweep the floor.

His eyes rest on her cleavage. It keeps the mind light.

"Short enough to not displease you, and long enough to displease my mother," he agrees, wryly. "A worthwhile balance."

Jill scoffs. "Displeasing her was never a difficult task. Our very breathing would do it, some days. Too loud..."

She clicks her tongue softly as she continues to cut. And now Anabella doesn't breathe at all.

"I wonder what she'd think of the noises you get out of me."

Now that's an interesting thought. He'd felt himself settling into a mood too sentimental and tender to manage fucking her roughly, but that gives him pause.

"She would be furious," he says, daring to look up a little bit more, to her face.

She meets his eyes and brushes stray hair off his nose. Despite Anabella never being a happy subject, she looks amused.

"Good."

Then she puts a hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn around so she can trim the back of his hair.

He's sore to have nothing but his own face to look at while she does the back, but he turns obediently, feeling like he should hunch at least a little so she can reach easier. He leans over the sink a bit, not sure if it's helpful or a hindrance. He supposes she'll tell him.

In the meantime:

"Do you like the thought of making her angry?"

Jill runs a hand down his back before tapping a shoulder. It's easier if he stands up straighter for her.

"I do. I spent so long afraid of her, trying so hard to avoid angering her... that our happiness would upset her brings me joy. Petty as that is."

But she can be a little petty before the man she loves, she thinks.

He hums comfortably at the stroke of her hand.

"I spent so long trying to please her," he muses, straightening up again. "You deserve to be petty, and I deserve to displease her..."

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