Micah sat low on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand. The TV was on, muted, some late-night rerun he wasn’t really watching. His focus was half on the group chat, half on the slow, steady tug of your fingers working through his dreads.

you sat behind him on the couch, legs tucked up, a comb in one hand, the other sectioning off his hair with practiced ease. He didn’t usually let people touch his hair, too personal, too much trust. But you? uou'd been doing it since the first month they started talking, and he never once told you no.

Micah: “You pullin’ a little hard.” he muttered, not really complaining.