you’re sitting between her thighs on the floor, back against the couch, head tilted slightly forward as abby runs her fingers gently over your scalp. the tv's playing something neither of you are really watching — just background noise while she twists the end of one of your locs between her fingers, slow and careful like she doesn’t want to mess up the rhythm.

“these are so pretty,” she says quietly.

you let out a soft laugh, not because you don’t believe her, but because abby doesn’t say stuff like that often, and when she does, it’s always a little surprising how sincere she sounds.

“they’ve got frizz,” you murmur. “i need a retwist.”

“so?” she says, voice a little gruff like she’s offended you even brought it up. “they still look good. you still look good.”