Page 91 of The Art of Ruin

It doesn’t.

It feels like climbing something I should be able to walk up without thinking, and the frustration sits just under the surface, not quite enough to boil over, but definitely there.

There’s a knock at the door.

Light.

Measured.

“You alright?” Adriano’s voice comes through, closer than I expected.

“I’m fine,” I call back automatically, even as I lower the dryer for a second because my arm needs a break.

There’s a pause.

Then the handle turns.

I should probably protest.

I don’t, because I find I want the distraction of him to keep from crying out of sheer frustration.

He steps in, his gaze landing on me, taking everything in quickly—the half-dried hair, the way I’m holding the dryer, the slight tension in my shoulders that I can’t quite hide.

“I’ve got it,” he says, reaching for the dryer.

“I can do it,” I reply, even as my fingers loosen around it.

“I know, but let me,” he says calmly. “I’ll finish it for you.”

There’s no judgment in it, no hint that he thinks I can’t, just that he’s already decided it makes more sense for him to do it instead. He wraps his care up as efficiency. It’s something I’ve noticed about him. He takes care of those who matter to him. It’s his love language of sorts.

And right now, rejecting that feels like more effort than handing it over.

So, I let him.

He adjusts the setting without asking, stepping closer, his attention shifting completely to what he’s doing like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Sit,” he adds.

I glance at the stool, then at him, then back again, because this is… a lot. “This is unnecessary.”

“Can you just let me do this?” He pauses. “Please?”

I huff out a quiet laugh despite myself and sit because apparently I’ve also given up on winning any arguments today. And he just pulled out the big guns with that soft please.

The warm air moves through my hair, steady and even, and I hadn’t expected this part—the way it feels to have someone else take over something so small, so ordinary, without making it into a whole thing.

He’s careful without being hesitant, working through the strands methodically, untangling without pulling. Running the brush through the strands gently.

“You’ve done this before,” I say, watching him in the mirror.

“Yes.”

“For Letty.”

“Yes.”

“That makes sense,” I murmur. “Does she fight you on it?”