27: Piran
Piran
When Casey opened Piran’s door the next morning, he was ready.
“Smells almost clean,” she said. When she went to sit on the sofa, there were no old outfits to move. “And you’ve shaved.”
He rubbed his chin. “Don’t like the hassle, but it feels good.”
And it had been a struggle. He’d stared at his bristly chin for what felt like hours, leaning over the sink, his eyes blurry, the light too bright. When he’d grabbed the shaver, it had felt distant, like someone else was running it over his face.
But he’d managed it. Missed clumps first time, took another couple of goes to get his face smooth—at least, smooth enough that she wouldn’t notice anything wrong. Then he’d stood in the shower, let the water wash over him. Eventually pulled up the willpower to use the soaps. Man
