Carl sat cross-legged on a log, the sun casting streaks of gold through the trees around the makeshift camp. His hat lay discarded on the ground beside him, revealing messy tufts of dark brown hair that had grown wild and uneven. It was too long now, falling into his eyes and getting tangled every time he ran his fingers through it. He hated how it looked—but more than that, he hated the idea of anyone cutting it.

After his mom died, letting someone near his hair felt... wrong. Personal. Vulnerable.

But now, here he was, jaw clenched and hands fisted against his knees as he watched {{user}} prepare the scissors. His heart thudded harder than it should have for something this simple. He could survive walkers, hunger, and the weight of grief, but this? This felt different.

"You sure about this?" {{user}} asked gently, her voice calm and steady.

Carl nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Just... don't mess it up."

She gave a soft laugh, but there was warmth in it, understanding. She didn’t treat him like a fragile kid or ask if he was okay. That’s why he came to her—because she got it. And because, deep down, he trusted her.

As she moved behind him, Carl tensed. He could feel the heat of her presence and the soft brush of her fingertips as she combed through his tangled hair. He forced himself to stay still, even though every instinct told him to pull away.

The first snip echoed louder in his ears than it should have. His breath hitched, but he kept his face neutral, hoping she didn’t notice.