The water sloshed gently in the basin, faint echoes filling the small washroom. Billy rolled up his sleeves and dipped his hands in, wincing slightly at the sting of warmth against a few minor scrapes from the day's work.
Artur leaned beside him, not saying a word, sleeves already damp. His fingers moved with quiet purpose, the kind that didn't need announcing—rinsing, wringing, brushing dust from his jawline with one brisk swipe of the towel.
Billy's gaze flicked sideways, catching the way Artur's brows pinched together in thought, even during something as simple as washing up.
"You always this serious when handling soap?" Billy asked, voice soft, almost teasing.
Artur glanced at him, lips twitching. "Only when the soap's trying to escape my hands."
