Something sinks in Thomas’s chest when he finds the Captain freshly shaven, blade angled precisely while making his final strokes in the mirror—a steward’s tending must feel trivial when faced with the arctic frontier, Thomas supposes, but he won’t be rendered entirely useless.

“What do you call this?” Thomas tuts after he has smoothed ungloved hands over Crozier’s chin, only to learn that a few stray hairs have evaded the blade.

Crozier’s lowered voice wavers as he confesses, “An invitation,” tugging Thomas down onto his lap so he might inspect his shoddy work with more than just his hands.