Chapter 6 #2
“I thought nobody here was impressed by stupid bravery.”
“That was before the beard gave us a cause.”
He gives me a look.
I nearly smile.
I do not, because discipline matters.
Mostly.
“There are disposable razors in the washroom cupboard,” I say. “Foam too, I think. Sink by the showers.”
“Of course there is.”
“Problem?”
“No. I just wasn’t expecting the fire service to be so prepared for my personal downfall.”
“We train for all scenarios.”
Kev says, “Mostly fires, but this is good too.”
I nod towards the locker room. “Don’t dawdle.”
AJ picks up his dignity, which has taken several blows but is still technically operational, and heads inside.
The second the door closes behind him, Mish says, “That was beautiful.”
“It’s a safety requirement.”
“Of course.”
“It is.”
I check the BA set because I need something to do with my hands that is not acknowledge the fact that AJ Hodgson sulking over a beard was funnier than it should have been.
Also, because I am thinking about what he’ll look like without it.
Which is not useful.
Not in the slightest.
The beard made him look older. Not old, exactly. Established. Polished. A bit too aware of his own angles. Without it, he’ll probably look more tired. Or paler. Or like a man who has made a poor grooming decision under pressure.
That would be helpful.
Very helpful.
A few minutes pass.
Then a few more.
Eventually, I go to check he hasn’t cut his own throat out of journalistic resentment.
I knock once on the locker room door. “You decent?”
There is a pause.
“I have never been less sure.”
I push the door open enough to step inside.
He is standing at the sink near the showers, still in the kit trousers but with the jacket off and folded on the bench. The helmet sits beside it. His sleeves are pushed up, a towel is draped over one shoulder, and shaving foam clings in a stubborn line beneath his jaw.
The beard is gone.
Oh.
That is my first thought.
Not a word.
Not even a proper thought.
Just oh.
Because the beard was not hiding a weak chin or saving him from a difficult face.
The beard was hiding softness. Not softness as in weakness.
Softness as in youth. Openness. The kind of mouth that looks more dangerous without careful framing around it.
The kind of jaw that makes him look less like a man auditioning for authority and more like one who has nothing to prove to the world.
He looks infuriatingly good.
Not going there, Pippa!
I step further in and keep my face professional through the sheer force of being a woman who has survived twenty years in a job where men mistake facial expressions for invitations to speak.
“Well?” he asks.
I look at the razor in his hand, then at his face. “You survived.”
“Physically.”
“Emotionally?” I ask.
“Too soon to tell.”
“You’ve missed a bit.”
His hand goes to his jaw. “Where?”
“Left side. Under the jaw.”
He turns back to the mirror, tilting his head.
“No, the other left.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is from where I’m standing.”
He squints at his reflection and drags the razor carefully along the wrong patch of skin.
“No,” I say. “Stop.”
He freezes immediately.
That matters. He jokes, and he performs, and he talks too much when he’s uncomfortable, but he does actually listen.
I take one step closer.
“Here.”
I reach for the towel first, then pause. “May I?”
The question lands between us, small but necessary.
His eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
I use the edge of the towel to wipe away a streak of foam near his jaw, then take the razor from his hand. His fingers release it without argument.
The locker room feels quieter than it did a moment ago.
Not silent. There are sounds from the station beyond the door, the low movement of people working, a laugh from somewhere near the bay, the distant clatter of equipment.
But in here, everything narrows to the angle of his jaw and the careful space between us.
“Hold still,” I say.
“I am.”
“You’re breathing like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release.”
“I’ve recently experienced a significant loss. The beard and I were close.”
I lift his chin with two fingers.
I mean to do it briskly.
Professionally.
I mostly manage.
His skin is warm under my touch. Slightly damp. Newly smooth where the beard has been. I draw the razor once, carefully, along the edge beneath his jaw.
He goes very still.
“There,” I say.
It comes out quieter than intended.
I wipe the last of the foam away with the towel.
For a second, neither of us moves.
His eyes are locked on me. Not with the quick, polished confidence he has been using as armour all morning. This is different. More direct. Less practised.
My hand is still near his jaw.
I lower it.
Step back.
“There,” I say again, because I have become a woman with limited vocabulary. “You’ll get a better seal now.”
His throat moves.
“Good.”
I hand him the razor.
Our fingers brush.
A tiny thing.
Ridiculous, how much attention my body gives it.
I turn towards the door before my face can do anything unhelpful.
“Jacket back on,” I say. “Then we’ll fit the mask.”
Behind me, he clears his throat.
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
The title should sound mocking.
It does not.
I leave the locker room and take one steadying breath.
For safety reasons, obviously.
Not because AJ Hodgson has just shaved off his beard and become considerably more difficult to ignore.
That would be absurd.
I am a professional.
A very professional woman who is about to make him carry an oxygen cylinder around the yard until both of us remember exactly why he is here.