#smh.

You hum softly as the warm water splashes against your skin, fingertips gliding over your cheeks to melt away the remnants of the day. The bathroom light casts a soft glow, and the faint scent of eucalyptus rises from the open jar of cleanser on the counter.

Somewhere behind you, Dex is leaning against the doorframe.

Again.

You catch his reflection in the mirror, tall and silent and very much not trying to hide the way he’s just… watching you.

“Seriously?” you ask, laughing under your breath. “You gonna stand there the whole time?”

He tilts his head slightly, arms crossed over his chest like he’s observing some rare wildlife. "Probably."

You snort, flicking water at him. “I don’t know what fascinates you about this.”

He pauses for a moment, the silence taking over for a few seconds.

“...You,” he says plainly.

And he means it. He always does. There’s not a single unnecessary word in his entire body. If Dex says you, he means you. No flourishes. No exaggeration. Just you.

The corner of your lips twitches upwards for a moment, looking away from him with a small sigh of content. Then, you continue with your routine. You begin your nightly process: toner, serum, eye cream. Dex hasn’t moved. He watches like you’re disarming a bomb, eyes tracking every product, every swipe of your hand.

“Do you want something?” you tease, cracking open a tub of thick moisturizer. “You wanna join in?”

There’s a pause. Then, completely deadpan, he speaks.

“…What do I have to do?”

You blink.

“Wait, seriously?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “If you’re gonna spend twenty minutes every night rubbing mystery creams on your face, I want to know why.”

You grin and beckon him over. “Come here, Poindexter. Let me teach you the sacred ways.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dex is sitting on the closed toilet lid like a damn statue, eyes closed, hands in his lap, with a panda sheet mask draped over his face.

You’re standing in front of him, biting your lip so you don’t laugh out loud.

He looks insane.

Absolutely deranged.

The black patches around the eyes make him look like a confused assassin who got lost on his way to a mission and ended up in Sephora.

“You okay?” you ask, voice high with suppressed laughter.

“…Can’t feel my face.”

“That’s the hyaluronic acid tingling. It’s good for your skin.”

A pause.

“Feels like it’s burning off my skin.”

“It’s supposed to feel like that.”

He peeks one eye open through the mask hole. “I don’t think pandas feel like this.”

You lose it. Hands braced on the sink, shoulders shaking with the force of your laughter, breath hitching as you try—and fail—to hold it back. It starts as a snort, then bubbles into something uncontrollable, your entire body curling forward while you gasp between fits.

Dex stares at you. The mask’s exaggerated panda smile makes the whole thing worse. Or better. You don’t know anymore.

He doesn’t crack a smile. Not once.

But the minute your laughter dies down, he says, “You’re stunning, you know.”

You glance at him, still grinning, cheeks flushed.

“You look ridiculous and you still say that?”

He pauses, “doesn’t matter what’s on your face. Or mine. I’ll still be looking at you.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t even realize the effect he has sometimes. The way he says things like that without fanfare. No flowery metaphors. Just brutal honesty, cut clean.

You kneel down in front of him, resting your hands on his knees. He looks down at you through the wide panda eyes of his mask.

Your palms press lightly to his knees, thumbs brushing slow arcs into the fabric of his sweats. You can feel the tension in his legs—always coiled, always ready—but here, in the soft hum of your bathroom, even that seems to ebb a little. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

He looks almost… harmless like this.

Ridiculous, yes. But harmless.

Your fingers slide up just a little, barely noticeable, and you tilt your head, letting your gaze roam over the cartoon mask warped across his sharp features. His mouth, usually tight with restraint, is obscured by the printed grin of the panda, and it’s just—it’s killing you. You can’t help but giggle again, quieter this time.

“You know,” you murmur, “if anyone saw you like this…”

“They won’t.”

His voice is calm. Certain.

You raise a brow. “Still. I think I should take a picture. Just in case I ever need leverage.”

Dex doesn’t even flinch. “You’d never use it.”

You pause, lips quirking. “Yeah,” you admit. “I wouldn’t.”

There’s a long beat. His eyes haven’t left yours. And even though he’s sitting there with a damn panda face stuck to him, you feel the moment shift—subtle, but real.

“Why do you let me see you like this?” he asks.

Your breath catches, slightly off-guard. “Like what?”

“This,” he says, lifting a hand just a little. “Unarmed. Vulnerable.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe ‘cause you don’t ask me to be anything else.”

The corner of the panda mask lifts slightly as he twitches his mouth underneath, maybe a smile, maybe not. But his eyes—they soften.

You reach up slowly, fingertips grazing the edge of the mask. “Time’s up, by the way,” you murmur. “Want me to take it off for you?”

He nods.

Carefully, you peel it back, revealing his flushed skin beneath, the faint sheen of product catching the light. His expression is unreadable—serious, but not distant. You toss the mask aside, then grab a cotton pad to dab the rest of the serum in, gently pressing it into his cheekbones, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

Not just tolerates it. Lets you. Fully present, fully still, watching you the entire time like you’ve got the answers to every damn question he’s never known how to ask.

Your hand pauses on his cheek, thumb tracing lightly along the edge of his brow.

“I meant it, by the way,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Meant what?”

“That you’re stunning.”

Your throat tightens. Something in your chest flutters—too quick to catch, too warm to ignore. And he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, like you’re something sacred and steady and rare. Even now. Even with product on your hands and half your hair pinned up in a stupid clip.

“You really know how to ruin a funny moment with sincerity, huh?” you whisper, trying to tease, but it comes out gentler than you meant.

Dex leans in a little, his forehead brushing yours. The scent of the sheet mask lingers faintly between you—clean, floral, absurd.

“Maybe,” he says. “You don’t seem to mind.”

A beat. Another beat.

“Hm,” you replied. “Of course I don’t.”

He grins. For the first time in hours after watching you.

His grin is small, crooked, but it cracks through all the stoicism like a sunbeam splitting cloud. Not performative, not sharp. Just there—real and rare and all yours.

You tilt your head slightly, noses brushing. “You’re not gonna kiss me with hyaluronic acid still on your face, are you?”

Dex exhales a soft huff of a laugh, low in his throat. “Wouldn’t dream of contaminating your sacred skincare rituals.”

You roll your eyes, hands still resting lightly on his face. “You already did. Just by being here.”

He leans in again, slower this time. Purposeful.

“And yet,” he murmurs, breath fanning over your lips, “you let me.”

His lips capture yours.

Not like a man covered in cartoon pandas. Not like someone indulging in something silly.

He kisses you like it’s gravity—like every single moment tonight led to this one, this press of lips soft and unhurried, reverent even. His hands find your waist, grounding you there between his knees, and yours slide naturally up around his shoulders, fingers curling in the cotton of his shirt.

It’s warm.

It’s gentle.

It’s stupidly tender for a man with a killer’s precision and a panda’s face serum.

And when you finally pull away, breath mingling, you stay there—foreheads touching, his thumbs brushing small circles into your hips like muscle memory.

You smile again, eyes half-lidded. “Dex?”

“Mm?”

“You still look ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough and fond. “But I feel good.”

And somehow, that’s the most vulnerable thing he’s said all night.

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