Harold is admiring John's back: beaded with water, towel at his hips. Distracted, he slips, feels a twinge in his hip and braces for a fall. John, with hairtrigger instincts, wheels and catches him by the elbows.
"You okay?" John's face is still half-lathered.
Harold should be embarrassed by his clumsiness when John is all grace, but here, safe, wreathed in steam, he can't be anything but content. He smiles.
"Perhaps Carrara marble was not the safest choice here."
John smiles, shrugs and returns to shaving. "You like the best."
Harold touches John's shoulder. He has the best right here.