I remember all too well the conflicted desire I felt. Back then, it warred with hate and my need for vengeance; now, it wars with heartbreak and broken trust. But the desire is still there.
It never left.
He looks at me and hesitates, a look of uncertainty flashing across his face.
‘Would you like me to do your hair?’ he says softly. ‘I can braid it if you want.’
‘You can?’
‘Sure, I used to do my mother’s hair when I was little. And I may have done a couple of horses’ tails in the past,’ he adds with a casualness that’s intended to make me laugh.
I offer a smile, but I don’t respond straight away.
It’s an intimate thing, letting someone do your hair for you, or at least it is for me. Maybe it’s the type of intimate offer I should say no to, but I can’t.
‘Sure. A braid would be good.’
He settles behind me on the narrow bed, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back. Slowly, carefully, he draws the brush through the curtain of blonde spilling over my shoulders, the bristles whispering softly as they glide from crown to ends. When he finds no snags, his touch lingers, and he begins to divide my hair with meticulous attention, fingers combing through silk and skin alike. As he moves his fingertips to a patch of skin behind my ear, he winces.
I spin around and face him. ‘I didn’t think. Your arm. You don’t have to do this.’
His eyes glimmer softly. ‘It’s fine. It distracts me from the pain. As long as you don’t mind?’
A distraction.
A sad huff threatens to leave my lungs. That was the one promise we made to each other – never to use one another as a distraction from the pain in our lives. But it wasn’t this type of pain we were talking about. Not a near-death injury but the type of wound that, no matter how deep it cut, most would never see the scars.
Which is why I nod my head.
‘As long as it doesn’t hurt too badly.’
‘I’ll stop if it does,’ he replies, even though we both know he’s lying.
Each gentle pass sends a shiver through me. His fingertips skim my scalp – unhurried, reverent – and the intimacy of it leaves me boneless, melting into the quiet rhythm of his care.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the sensation, into the rare luxury of being tended to rather than standing strong.
For what feels like the first time since becoming the gifted, I allow myself to simply feel. To belong in the moment. To be taken care of.
Broken bones heal stronger.
Caz’s voice appears in my mind, followed almost immediately by Llin’s.
Which bone do you reckon Rose’s thinking of now?I hear her laugh as if she’s here in the room, and I can’t help but feel a sad chuckle rise within me. She would have made the moment crude. I’m sure of it. And I would have laughed because we’d both know it was true.
But I can’t think about that now. I can’t.
It’s a slow process and I can tell he’s taking his time, but I don’t know whether it’s due to the pain he’s refusing to feel, whether he’s rusty, or because he’s guarding the moment, stretching it out so we can touch innocently for a few more beats.
Either way, I regret it when his hands go still.
‘All done,’ he says, his voice husky.
‘Thank you,’ I respond, only to find mine is the same. I clear my throat and try to sound like that experience didn’t affect me at all.
‘How’s your arm feeling now?’ I ask him.
He rotates the shoulder before shrugging it up and down. ‘A little better. Come on. We should eat.’
