Just wanna lie in illis lap and get my hair petted by her </3
Her hands would be so gentle, spending all her time weaving her fingers slowly through the strands of your hair. Spending time lightly untangling knots and other small, unruly tangles that plagued your hair, as if each one were a small problem she could quietly solve for you.
Her hands felt like butter, albeit sweaty and almost popcorn-smelling, but nothing that could scare you away. If anything, it only made the moment more real, loving.
You leaned into her touch without even realizing it, chin tipping forward as she worked through a stubborn knot near your scalp. The room around you was dim, lit only by the weak glow of the random movie she had picked out. Somewhere outside, a car passed by, the sound reverberating around the basement, but inside the room, everything felt safe.
“Hold still,” she murmured, her brows furrowed in concentration. “This one’s personal.”
“It always is,” you muttered, opening your eyes to catch a glimpse of her scrunched up
She laughed quietly, a sound that lived somewhere between a breath and a smile. “Your hair has grudges.”
You felt the tension in your shoulders ease a little as she coaxed the knot apart, strand by strand. When it finally loosened, she smoothed your hair down with slow, deliberate strokes, as if reassuring both of you that the problem had truly been dealt with.
“Long life,” you replied.
“Not bad,” you said. “Just… constricting”
She didn’t ask you to explain. She never did. Instead, she shifted closer behind you on the couch, knees brushing lightly against your back, her hands resuming their steady work.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “this reminds me of when we used to sit on the floor at the comic shop.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“The old one?” you asked. “With the broken bell on the door?”
“The one and only,” she said. “Every time someone walked in, it made that sad little half-jingle sound.”
“And we’d both look up like we were doing something illegal.”
She laughed again. “We kind of were. We were absolutely not supposed to sit in the aisles.”
“But we did anyway,” you said. “Between the comics and all the figurines.
“Right where the floor was the dustiest,” she added. “My jeans were always filthy by the time we left.”
Even just talking about your stupid teenage shenanigansthe narrow aisles, the tall shelves stacked too tightly together, the way the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. You’d sit cross-legged on the floor, backs against opposite shelves, pretending you were browsing while really just talking about everything and nothing.
“You always read the blurbs out loud,” you said.
“Only the dramatic ones,” she replied. “The ones that sounded like bad movie trailers.”
“And you’d make up your own endings.”
“Better endings,” she corrected.
Her fingers drifted lower, combing through the ends of your hair with slow patience.
“You remember that one time,” she continued, “when you knocked over the entire display of trading cards?”
You groaned. “I blocked that out.”
“You froze,” she said, laughing. “Just stared at it like if you didn’t move, no one would notice.”
“And you just stood there, holding one pack, pretending to read it.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You were being useless.”
She nudged your shoulder lightly with her knee. “I paid for half of them. That was supportive.”
You smiled at the memory, warmth spreading through your chest.
“And then,” she said softly, “after the comic shop, we’d always go to Blockbuster.”
You let out a long sigh. “The holy pilgrimage.”
“The sacred ritual,” she agreed. “Friday nights only.”
“And we’d argue in every single aisle.”
“Because you had terrible taste.”
“Because you were always picking movies where the girl dies in the end!” you shot back.
She laughed, louder this time. “Excuse you. I simply did not enjoy being traumatized by low-budget horror films.”
“You loved the bad ones.”
“I loved watching you pretend you weren’t scared,” she said.
You could hear the smile in her voice.
“You’d clutch the blanket like your life depended on it,” she continued. “But you’d insist you were totally fine.”
“You screamed when the toaster popped once.”
“That was a jump scare,” you said defensively.
Her hands slowed again, drifting from grooming to idle, affectionate strokes. She traced small, absentminded patterns along your scalp, as if the memories themselves were guiding her fingers.
“We always took forever choosing,” she said. “We’d circle the same aisles over and over.”
“You kept vetoing everything.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe.”
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the rhythm of her touch.
“And then,” you said, “we’d sit in that back booth. The one with the ripped vinyl seats.”
“And the table that wobbled,” she added. “We always got the wobbly one.”
“You always let me lean against you.”
“Because you always pretended you were cold.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“I think,” you said slowly, “I was always nervous around you.”
“Really?” she asked softly.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I just didn’t know why yet.”
She shifted closer, her breath warm against the back of your neck.
“I think I knew,” she said. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. Just full.
She resumed stroking your hair, slower now, more deliberate.
“You remember the summer after graduation?” she asked. “When we worked at that awful café?”
“The one with the broken espresso machine?”
“And the manager who hated us.”
“He definitely knew,” you said.
She laughed quietly. “We were terrible at hiding it.”
“You’d always bring me free pastries.”
“You’d always pretend you didn’t notice.”
Her hand slid from your hair to rest gently on your shoulder.
“We’d close together,” she said. “Every night.”
“And talk about leaving.”
“And never actually plan it,” you said.
She smiled sadly. “We were scared.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “We were.”
Her thumb brushed slowly along the side of your neck, a grounding touch.
“You know,” she said, “I almost told you back then.”
“That night it rained really hard. We got stuck under the awning.”
You remembered it instantly: the sound of rain pounding the pavement, the smell of wet concrete, the way she’d been standing so close you could feel her warmth.
“I almost did,” she said. “But then you started talking about that stupid movie.”
“I ruin everything,” you murmured.
“You saved me,” she corrected.
You turned your head just enough to look at her.
“Because if I’d told you then,” she said quietly, “I don’t think I was brave enough to love you the right way yet.”
She moved around the couch until she was beside you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other resting lightly on your knee.
“You were always my safest place,” she said. “Even before I knew you were home.”
You looked at her then, really looked at her. The familiar curve of her smile, the softness of her brown eyes, the way her greasy hair fell into her face, no matter how many times she brushed it away.
“I loved you then,” you said.
“I love you now,” you added.
She leaned forward, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
The kiss was gentle, unhurried, full of all the years you’d waited. When you pulled back, she rested her forehead against yours, eyes closed.
She slid back behind you, pulling you gently against her chest, her arms wrapping around you. Her hand returned to your hair, resuming the soft, steady strokes that had started it all.
Outside, another car passed. The TV flickered faintly. Time moved on.
But for now, in this small, quiet moment, with her hands in your hair and your back against her heart, the past and the present finally fit together.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were waiting for something to begin.
A's note!- hey......how yall doing.... ive lowk been digging my heels into the mud trying to write and i think my depression is kicking in, so i may take a hiatus but who know... i sure dont! but kisses to everyone!!
