Lee is watching you again.

He’s sitting on the edge of the motel bed, fingers fidgeting with the frayed hem of his t-shirt, the one you’ve seen him wear three days straight. His knees are spread, elbows resting loose, eyes locked on you like you’re something out of a dream he doesn’t trust yet.

The motel mirror is cracked in the corner. The light above it flickers once. Twice. And then stays on. You don’t know what made you decide to do this now—maybe the way the ends of your hair kept falling into your eyes, maybe it was just the silence. The kind of silence that makes you feel like if you don’t do something, you’ll go insane.

You hold the scissors up. Hesitate. Look at him through the mirror.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn.

He doesn’t. Just leans back a little, watching you with that half-smile, the one that’s mostly in his eyes. “I won’t,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “But if you mess it up, I’m not fixing it.”

You cut.

the first snip is uneven. You blink at it, a little stunned. The strands fall like feathers into the sink. Lee leans forward, his eyes following every movement—like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks.

“I think I went too short,” you murmured.

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “You look fine.”

You glance at him again. He’s still watching. Not judging. Not teasing. Just watching. Like maybe this tiny act of normalcy is anchoring him to the moment. To you.

“you wanna try?” you ask, half-joking, offering him the scissors.

He pauses. Stands. Walks over, quiet as ever, and takes them from you. His fingers brush yours—warm, calloused. You feel it all the way down your spine.

He lifts a strand. Tilts his head. “you trust me?”

You nod.

His hand is steady, but gentle. Like you’re something breakable. and maybe you are. Maybe you both are.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just cuts, carefully, tenderly, his breath fanning against your cheek. It’s quiet. Still.

And for a second, it feels like you’re just two people, not running, not haunted, not hungry.