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“It can mean you don’t get to leave.”

His hands stop again, this time for longer. “You can leave.”

The words are simple and matter-of-fact, which makes them harder to answer. I swallow. “I know.”

Locke resumes the braid.

I think I like that about him.

The thought arrives so clearly that my eyes open.

I like him.

The realization should probably feel more complicated than it does. I like his questions, his stubbornness, and the fact that he’s offended by our bear’s shoulders.

And I really like his hands in my hair.

“There.”

His voice comes from behind me. I turn too quickly and nearly undo whatever he has made. Locke catches the braid in one hand.

“Hold still.”

I laugh. “See? Perfect.”

He studies me as though he suspects another joke.

I hand him the hair elastic. Without direction he wraps it repeatedly around the end of the braid until it is tight. Then I reach behind my head. “Can I feel it?”

He puts the end into my hand.

The braid is thick and smooth, running diagonally from one side before joining the rest down my back. I bring it forward over my shoulder and look at the part I can see.

It’s beautiful.

It isn’t fancy enough for a wedding or anything ridiculous, just an intricate braid that looks deliberate and soft and a hundred times better than anything I could have done in the twelve minutes I now have left.

“Locke.”

He watches my face.

“You did this?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, I know you did. It’s really good.”

“Good?”

“Very.”

His gaze stays on my face, and I can tell the answer pleases him. I reach up to touch the braid near my temple and find one tiny green leaf caught between two strands. I pull it free and hold it up.

Locke looks at the leaf and then at the braid as if deciding whether it belongs there.

“You’re shedding.”

“Bad?”