Kat loves Patrick's hair, and he loves hers. In the evenings, as she sits up against the headboard and reads her books, he'll lay beside her and play with her hair. He twists sections together and watches them untwist. He wraps pieces around his fingers or weaves them in between.
One night, she stops reading a section aloud and turns to look at him. The warm light from their bedside lamp illuminates his hair from behind, limning each strand with gold and giving him the look of a haloed angel. He's far from it, she thinks fondly, but he's beautiful.
He stops twisting a piece of hair around another and looks up at her. "'In these situations, women often find themselves acquiescing to the men—?'" he says encouragingly.
"Ah, so you were listening!" Kat says.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he teases.
Kat sets her book on her lap. "One might say it isn't your area of interest."
"No, but it's yours." He smiles up at her. "And you are my area of interest."
She swats his shoulder. "Flatterer." But she braces herself with one hand on the pillow behind her and leans down for a kiss, smiling into his lips. When she pulls back, she says, "I could teach you how to braid my hair."
"Not that I'm objecting, but—"
"You were playing with it. Before. You do that a lot."
He pushes himself up to sit next to her. "Should I stop?"
She puts a finger on his forehead and smoothes out the crease between his eyebrows. It always surprises her how quickly he can snap into and out of that serious mode, genuinely concerned about her in a way very few people ever are. "No. I just thought you might like to know."
He leans forward and kisses her forehead. "I'd love to."
So she divides her hair into sections and shows him how to do a simple braid. He's always had good hand-eye coordination, making lovely things in wood shop and metal shop, and he quickly catches on. She moves on to French braids, turning her back on him and tilting her head so he can practice. It isn't long, though, before he pulls her braid aside and kisses her neck, her shoulder, her upper back. She grins to herself and lets him enjoy it for a bit before turning around, straddling his lap, and diverting his attention elsewhere.
no subject
Kat loves Patrick's hair, and he loves hers. In the evenings, as she sits up against the headboard and reads her books, he'll lay beside her and play with her hair. He twists sections together and watches them untwist. He wraps pieces around his fingers or weaves them in between.
One night, she stops reading a section aloud and turns to look at him. The warm light from their bedside lamp illuminates his hair from behind, limning each strand with gold and giving him the look of a haloed angel. He's far from it, she thinks fondly, but he's beautiful.
He stops twisting a piece of hair around another and looks up at her. "'In these situations, women often find themselves acquiescing to the men—?'" he says encouragingly.
"Ah, so you were listening!" Kat says.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he teases.
Kat sets her book on her lap. "One might say it isn't your area of interest."
"No, but it's yours." He smiles up at her. "And you are my area of interest."
She swats his shoulder. "Flatterer." But she braces herself with one hand on the pillow behind her and leans down for a kiss, smiling into his lips. When she pulls back, she says, "I could teach you how to braid my hair."
"Not that I'm objecting, but—"
"You were playing with it. Before. You do that a lot."
He pushes himself up to sit next to her. "Should I stop?"
She puts a finger on his forehead and smoothes out the crease between his eyebrows. It always surprises her how quickly he can snap into and out of that serious mode, genuinely concerned about her in a way very few people ever are. "No. I just thought you might like to know."
He leans forward and kisses her forehead. "I'd love to."
So she divides her hair into sections and shows him how to do a simple braid. He's always had good hand-eye coordination, making lovely things in wood shop and metal shop, and he quickly catches on. She moves on to French braids, turning her back on him and tilting her head so he can practice. It isn't long, though, before he pulls her braid aside and kisses her neck, her shoulder, her upper back. She grins to herself and lets him enjoy it for a bit before turning around, straddling his lap, and diverting his attention elsewhere.