she never liked closed doors. even when it was just the wind clicking one shut, her whole body would flinch like it was muscle memory.

carl noticed. never commented. just started leaving his own door cracked when she stayed over, light spilling into the hallway like some quiet reassurance.

she didn’t like yelling, either. voices raised made her go still—eyes wide, breath shallow. carl learned to speak softer. like everything he said might bruise.

once, during a summer heat wave, she pulled her sleeves down when no one else could stand the heat. carl saw the edge of a scar on her forearm. said nothing. just passed her a water bottle, let her hold the silence without explanation.

but the hair—that was what he learned first. her dad used to yank it when she was little. tight braids, scraped scalps, anything to keep her “put together.” it made her scalp ache for years. she told carl one night, sitting on the porch steps with the stars overhead.

the next day, he showed up with a brush. awkward hands, gentle touch. “can i?”

she nodded. so he learned. practiced on an old shirt sleeve tied to a chair. and every time, it was loose. soft. careful.

some nights, she’d fall asleep before he finished braiding her hair. and carl would just sit there, fingers still in her hair, braiding through the quiet.