The sun’s slipping low, turning everything gold and lazy. You’re sitting on the porch railing at the Cameron house, your hair tangled from the wind and the saltwater, your back warm against the heat of the wood.

Sarah leans in the doorway, popsicle in one hand, eyes locked on you like she’s sizing you up for something. Then she tilts her head.

“Come here,” she says, voice light but with that sly edge. “I wanna braid your hair.”

You raise a brow. “Why? So you can tug on it like Rafe does to Wheezie?”

She smirks. “Please. If I’m pulling your hair, it’s not because I’m being mean.”

Your cheeks go hot. “Sarah—”

She grins, walking over and dropping onto the step behind you without another word, legs pressed against your back, her knees bracketing your sides. You feel her fingertips in your hair immediately cool, sure, gentle. Too gentle.

“You have really pretty hair,” she murmurs, twisting a strand slowly between her fingers. “Soft. Kind of unfair.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re being suspiciously nice.”

“I’m always nice to girls I like.”

You freeze. “What?” You try to turn around but she places a hand on your shoulder to steady you. “Sit still. I’m working.”

Your breath catches. You feel her tug one section tighter, her knuckles grazing the nape of your neck, slow and teasing.

“This okay?” she asks softly.

You nod. You’re not sure if she means the braid or the everything else.

Her fingers keep moving, now slower, more intentional, like she’s enjoying the way your body stills every time she gets too close.

“You know,” she says, tying the braid off with a flick of her wrist, “I’d braid your hair every day if you let me.”

You turn around this time, facing her fully. “Yeah?”

Sarah smiles, leaning in, fingers still tangled in the end of your braid.

“Yeah” she says.