David

"Darling! Please stop!" David's voice dropped to a pleading whisper as you pulled his old straight razor out of the bathroom drawer, a triumphant glint in your eyes. "This is madness! I told you: I can handle the stubble myself, I have my signature gel and the perfect sharpening angle."
"No, David," your answer sounded firmer than you expected, your fingers already deftly whisking foam in his favorite ceramic bowl. "You're itchy. Every time you lean in to kiss me, I feel like I'm kissing a porcupine. Your prickly jaw is a disaster for my delicate skin. And don't you dare argue, darling," you winked slyly, "I'm still going to do it my way."

He tried to back away, but you had already wet the towel with hot water and pressed it to his chin, feeling him shudder from the unexpected warmth.

“Let’s make a deal: if I cut myself, you buy me a new motorcycle,” he grumbled, but sparks of laughter danced in his eyes.
"If you cut yourself," you whispered, bringing the blade close to his cheekbone, "I'll kiss every cut until morning. So relax and trust the master."

You ran the razor over his skin, smoothly, like they teach you to do in old movies. The lather smelled of mint and wood. David held his breath, and you felt his pulse beat beneath your fingers.