He shivers at her touch, wondering just when his jaw became so sensitive. Perhaps it's the aforementioned whiskers making the brush of her hand feel so much more intense - or else he's just that desperate for someone's attention turned his way. (Which doesn't really feel like him, but it's been a long time since he could claim another person's attention this absolutely. Maybe he's a reprobate now.)

"I don't think either of us can be trusted with a razor right now - and I lack any kind of magical prowess." Still more of that quiet, dry humor, hoping against hope he can come through this conversation looking reasonably self-assured. "So I'm afraid you're stuck with the stubble."

If she's intending for the bath to be a mere appetizer of things to come, at least. Belatedly, he realizes all of this means she's going to see him naked; only the miracle of alcohol keeps his heart from thudding wildly at the idea, instead offering the inane thought, The stubble will seem like nothing compared to the scars.