She favors her right leg when she’s tired. There’s an old injury there, something healed but not forgotten. She has a scar on her left forearm that she touches when she’s thinking, running her thumb along it, back and forth. She doesn’t know she does it.
I haven’t known another person this well since Vortek.
I shut the thought down. Not now. Not him.
I reach into my pocket and feel the comb there. Bone handle carved with small birds. I found it in a dead trader’s pack three years ago. Frozen body at the base of the north ridge. Too delicate for Jötunn hands. I kept it without knowing why. Shoved it in a chest with other useless salvage and forgot about it.
Three days ago I watched her fight tangles out of her hair with her fingers. Cursing under her breath. Knot after knot. Herarms getting tired. Her frustration building until she gave up and scraped the whole mess into a lump at the back of her neck.
I remembered the comb.
I stand and cross to the furs where she sleeps. I place the comb on her pillow. Position it in the center where she’ll see it. Retreat to my chair.
She finishes with the storage shelves a few minutes later. Turns around, stretching her back with a groan. Her eyes fall on the sleeping area. On the pillow. On the small pale thing resting there.
She walks over and picks it up.
I watch her turn it over in her hands. Her thumb runs along the carved birds. She tests the teeth against her palm. Her fingers go still on the handle. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes.
She looks at me.
I look at the fire.
“Thyran.”
“I found it.” Gruff. Defensive, and I can hear it in my own voice and I cannot stop it. “Years ago. Too small for me. No use for it.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t respond. There is nothing to say. It is just a comb. Just a useless thing I kept for no reason, and now it has a purpose. That is all.
She sits down by the fire with her back to me and begins to undo the messy knot of her hair. It falls down her back. Longer than I realized. Tangled and wild from days of neglect.
She lifts the comb and begins to work it through the strands.
My hands go still. My temperature spikes. I can feel the heat rising off my own skin.
The firelight catches her hair as she combs. Shining, with a warmth in it that I hadn’t noticed when it was tangled and dirty.She works slowly, methodically. Starting at the ends and moving up. Knot after knot.
Her head tilts as she works. The curve of her neck exposed. The line of her throat. Her hands moving in a rhythm that is steady and patient. I cannot look away.
Want.
The word goes through me and my whole body goes tight with it.
I want to touch her hair. I want to cross this room and take the comb from her hands and do it myself. Feel those strands between my fingers. Work out every tangle.
I want to put my mouth on the back of her neck.
My hands ache. My whole body aches. I grip the armrests and hear the wood crack, feel the grain split under my palms.
She braids. Her fingers weaving the strands together. The braid grows longer, thick and heavy, swinging against her back when she ties it off with a strip of leather.
She turns her head and catches me staring.
I don’t look away.
I can’t.
