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“Maybe you should let me dry and style it,” I suggest, liking the idea of taking care of that for him.
He gives me a smile. “Let me get my liner on and you can grab the hair dryer.”
He picks up his usual black eyeliner as I look around for the brush. I find it on the edge of the bed, where he must have dumped it after he got finished with my hair. All his supplies are high end, which I didn’t notice until recently. He takes good care of everything, too, despite occasionally losing things because he puts them down in random places and forgets all about them.
It really feels like this stuff is his passion. I can imagine him running his own salon.
He sets the liner down when he’s done and meets my gaze in the mirror.
“We have the bar,” he tells me. “I don’t need anything else taking my attention away from you.”
I smile at him. “Well, then, why don’t you try different mermaid looks on me this week. You bought all this makeup. We should use it.”
“I’d like that,” he says, as I start to brush his hair. “The heat spray … I think it’s on top of the bookcase.”
I stop brushing to grab it. “On the brush, right?”
He nods, and I spray it on. I get the hairdryer ready and start drying his hair. It’s funny, I don’t remember him ever saying he had a hair appointment, but his style and length have been the same since I met him. Six months ago.
I turn the dryer off. “Do you cut your own hair?”
He has a vaguely guilty look on his face as he answers, “My mom taught me. It just became second nature. It’s nothing.”
I nod slowly, not allowing myself to think about it. “It looks like a hairdresser cut it.”
“That’s what my mom is,” he admits. “She liked to teach me stuff when I was younger. Said I picked it up like a natural.”
“She’s right.” I finish drying when he doesn’t say anything else.
The lighter shade softens his look, but the cut keeps it edgy.
He lets out a soft sigh.
“Sorry for getting kind of weird,” he says. “I love my mom, and maybe at some point I wanted to do the stuff she did. It just … It made my dad furious. He argued with her a lot when I was a kid, telling her she was turning me soft, making me do stuff boys don’t do. I hated him for that, and part of me says fuck him for even saying that shit.”
He clears his throat. “The other part … Well, he’s still my dad. I don’t put on nail polish or eyeliner if I know I’m going to see him. And we don’t get along that well, but he’s still the guy who tucked me in at night when I was a kid. I still remember him reading me stories and answering my questions with endless patience whenever I was excited about anything. For the longest time, I hated the thought of disappointing him. I came here to a ‘normal’ college when I got the chance, and if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you.”
Ugh, it makes me so sad to hear that, and I know that’s why he doesn’t talk about his past.
He’s an Omega. He feels everything so deeply. When he tells me something like this, he’s seeing his own emotions amplified because I can’t help but hurt when he hurts. It’s harder for him to talk about painful things than it would be if he wasn’t an Omega.
“I get it,” I tell him. “I just like seeing you happy.”
“I know,” he says, getting up.
“Wait. You didn’t put on nail polish.”
Maybe talking about his dad put him off.
There’s a hint of tension in his body before he sits back down. “What color?”
“Blue,” I tell him, not stopping to think about it.
It’s our color, whatever the shade.
He picks up the dark blue bottle and shakes it up.
His black shirt has short sleeves and he put wrist cuffs on when he got dressed after his shower.
