You’re on the floor of his room, scrolling on your phone, legs stretched out, your back leaning against the bed. Rafe’s lying across it behind you, one arm dangling lazily over the edge, watching you like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoying or sweet. Possibly both.

Your hair is falling all over the place long, messy, undone from the clip you tossed somewhere hours ago. He watches a piece slide over your shoulder again and again until finally, he speaks.

“Come here.”

You glance up. “Why?”

He taps the space between his knees. “Just sit. I’m gonna braid your hair.”

You blink. “You’re gonna what?”

“Braid it,” he repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m bored. Your hair’s in my face. Let me do something about it.”

“You don’t know how to braid.”

“I watched Wheezie do it like a thousand times. I’ve got this.”

You snort but crawl over anyway, settling down between his legs, your back to his chest.

His fingers gather your hair slowly, combing through it with surprising care. He’s quiet at first, all focus, separating strands like it’s some puzzle he will solve.

“You have really soft hair,” he murmurs.

“That’s sweet.”

He chuckles low. “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

Clumsy at first he messes up the sections, mutters a low “wait, no, that’s not right,” and starts again. His fingertips graze your neck, your shoulders, as he works, and you can feel his breath near your ear, slow and steady.

And somehow, the braid in your hair feels more intimate than a kiss.