Harrow opens her eyes and watches her with that one expression, the one Gideon can't name but wants to soak in, the one that makes her stomach flip and tie itself into knots and occasionally spontaneously combust, taking all her self-awareness and restraint right out the door with it as it goes. She meets it, this look, head-on, studies Harrow's huge pupils, her slightly parted lips.

She cocks a lopsided grin, and winks. "Almost done."

But she takes her time. Working around Harrow's ear. At the base of her skull. Testing with her fingers to see if her scalp has been shorn smoothly enough.

And finally, taking the warm damp towel, and carefully swabbing the remnants of the shaving cream away, until Harrow's pale scalp is clean and pink. She steps back to look over her work with a critical eye, and nods once. "Looks good."