Leehan is sitting on the floor between your legs, back resting against the couch, completely trusting you with a curling iron near his head. The room smells like shampoo and warm fabric softener, quiet except for the faint hum of the iron heating up.

“Don’t burn me,” he says lightly, tilting his head so you can reach the back.

“I won’t,” you mumble, fingers combing gently through his hair before wrapping a section around the barrel. He stays still, eyes half closed, like this is his favorite place to be. Every now and then he hums, leaning back into you a little more when your fingers brush his scalp.

“You’re concentrating really hard,” he murmurs.