“Can you please let me in?” Dick pleads on the other side of the heavy bathroom door. He’s asking as a courtesy. You’re certain there are at least a thousand spare keys in this home, or that he could simply break the door down. But he asks in a gentle voice reserved only for you two, only for these stolen moments on late nights.
“I cannot,” you say matter-of-factly. You jiggle the doorknob, making sure it’s locked.
Dick releases a frustrated groan, shuffling around outside the door. You beat him to the bathroom tonight, and he’s not handling the loss well. He always whines that you take long and that you never remember where things go.
Every time you do beat Dick, not by being faster, but by pretending to go somewhere else and then making a sharp turn into the bathroom, he knocks softly, asks you to please, please let him in.
But you’re not too keen on sharing a bathroom with him, either. Aside from moving everything you use as soon as you put it down, he’s the sweetest type of annoying. He’s always asking if he can braid your hair this time (he’s awful at it) or if he can help you with your skincare (he slathers your face in lotion and you can never rub it in enough). The way he asks is so loving you can never say no, but you can’t quite bring yourself to say yes, either.
Tonight, you crack. Maybe it’s that you already miss him after spending all night cuddled up watching Star Wars, or that he just sounds so miserable out there by himself. You crack the door open, just a sliver, and you find him slouched onto the floor opposite the door, patiently waiting. He peers up at you in the streak of bright bathroom light, resisting the urge to smile, no doubt trying to maintain the advantage your pity has given him tonight. He eagerly brings himself off of the floor and back to you, where he’d much rather be.
You hear him suppress a sharp gasp at the scene he walks into: bottles and loose bobby pins all over the countertop. You stifle a chuckle of your own. At least he’s trying.
Instead of springing to clean, he stands behind you, careful not to block your view of the mirror, pulling your back against his chest. You know he missed you, too. Instinctively, he buries his face in your neck, breathing you in and leaving a gentle tickle each time he exhales. Dick has the strongest arms but the softest touch, and his warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest leave you feeling safe, loved. You absentmindedly smooth moisturizer onto your skin, overwhelmed by the bliss of being back in his arms, when you feel him mumble something unintelligible into the crook of your neck.
“What was that?” you ask, capping your lotion.
He pulls his head away from your neck, meeting your eyes in the mirror, and you cringe at the sudden cold.
“Nothing,” he says, finally audible.
“I heard something.”
“I think you missed a spot,” he says, smirking.
You snort, unsurprised. He held it in as long as he could. You turn to face Dick, open your lotion, and put a small dab on his thumb. He can’t mess it up if you decide the amount.
“This isn’t enough,” he says predictably, reaching for the bottle in your hand. You stifle a laugh, pulling it out of his reach.
“I promise it is.”
He takes his time, touching his thumb to your forehead, each cheek, and your chin, before running out of lotion. It takes everything in you not to laugh at how concentrated he is. You watch his concentrated stare finally break as he lovingly traces over your face, rubbing circles where he’s strategically placed lotion, and pressing soft kisses to where he’s just touched skin. The rough calluses of his thumbs and the sudden tenderness of his lips leave you with goosebumps all over.
He looks at you, face nearly saturated with lotion, like a masterpiece. You smile up at him, giddy on his affection, and he presses one more kiss to your nose. He just can’t help himself.
“Did you get the spot?” you tease.
His hands move from your face to your hips, pulling you back into him.
“I did. I think I may be better at this than you are,” he tells you.
“Maybe I’ll let–” you feel Dick move a hand away from you and instinctively, your eyes follow his movements. “Oh, you asshole.”
He’s rearranging the counter behind you.
“I’m helping!” he argues, and you shake your head. Maybe you will stop locking him out. But not anytime soon.