Then his fingers moved to her hair.
She went very still.
“Don’t jump,” he said quietly, reading her tension. “I’m just helping. That’s all.”
His fingers found the pins holding the elaborate braid in place. He worked slowly, methodically, giving her time to adjust.
“I’m starting work again in two days,” he said, his tone shifting to something easier. Safer. “That postponed shoot for the last sequence.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly at the familiar topic. “The burial scene.”
“Yes.” His fingers worked through another pin. “Should take about four hours if...”
“You’ll need the 7 AM call time.” Her voice steadied, slipping into assistant mode even while sitting in a wedding lehenga getting her hair undone by her brand-new husband. “Traffic to the studio is...”
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck as he removed another pin.
Her words cut off abruptly. Her breath hitched.
In the mirror, he saw her eyes widen slightly. Saw the flush rising along her throat.
“Traffic is what?” he prompted softly, fingers continuing their work through her hair.
“I...” She swallowed. “Terrible. After eight.”
Another pin came free. His fingertips grazed her scalp, gentle and deliberate.
She shivered.
“Cold?” he asked, voice dropping lower.
“No.” The word came out breathless. “I’m... the schedule. We should coordinate...”
“Should we?” His fingers found another pin, working it loose with careful attention.
“The magazine interview. Thursday.” She was struggling now, words coming slower. “We need to align our... our stories about...”
His thumb traced along her hairline as he removed the final pin from that section.
Her eyes closed briefly. When they opened, they looked slightly dazed.
“About what?” he murmured, watching her face in the mirror with growing satisfaction.
She’d stopped talking entirely. Just sat there, breath uneven, acutely aware of his hands in her hair, his presence behind her, the warmth of him at her back.
He kept working, kept touching, kept watching her come undone in the mirror.
The last pin came free. Her hair started to uncoil from its elaborate style, slowly unwinding.
And then it fell.
Vikram’s breath caught.
He’d never seen her hair down before. Never.
It reached her calves. Thick and dark and impossibly long, cascading down her back in waves. The kind of hair that would feel like silk if he let himself really touch it. The kind that would spread across pillows like spilled ink.
His hands stilled in the heavy mass of it.
