Her long, dark locks cascade down her back, and you’re carefully gathering sections to braid, something that’s become a regular routine between the two of you. You’ve done this countless times before; Mel claims you’re the only person she trusts to touch her hair. You’re certain she takes pleasure in making the process as dramatic as possible.

“Babe! That hurts!” Mel exclaims, wincing. The sharpness in her tone is exaggerated, though her eyes flick to you over her shoulder, narrowed in accusation.

You pause, fingers hovering over her hair, not even close to her scalp yet. She raises a brow, as if daring you to argue. “Don’t look at me like that. I felt it,” she insists, lips curving into a pout before she quickly composes herself. “Honestly, you’d think you were yanking my hair out strand by strand.”

This isn’t new. Every time you braid her hair, whether it’s a simple plait or intricate locks—Mel makes a show of it. You’ve learned it’s part of her charm, part of her tendency to turn even the quietest moments into something theatrical. She shifts slightly in her seat, crossing her arms and letting out a soft sigh as though enduring some great suffering.

“I don’t understand how you manage to be so meticulous with everything else, yet so brutal when it comes to my hair,” she adds, tilting her head ever so slightly back.

But there’s no malice in her voice, only teasing. The truth is, Mel relishes these moments, though she’d never say so outright. You’re the one person she allows this close, the one who sees her without her armor. It’s something you’ve both grown accustomed to over the years.

“Perhaps I’m too tender-headed for your skills,” she murmurs after a beat, her voice softening just slightly, though the dramatics aren’t far behind. “Or perhaps you just enjoy tormenting me. But I suppose I’ll endure it, the things we do for love.”