She sat behind him, weight on her knees as she gathered his hair in her hands and gently pulled the brush through weighty dark locks. There was a rhythm to it, brushing hair. Pull, hit a tangle, pause to work it out, then pull through again. The rhythm helped; Arran’s dreamy monologuing about the love of his life helped more. Still, she flinched when the backs of her fingers touched his neck, and Arran obligingly pretended he’d noticed no such thing when her rhythm stuttered for a split second before she resumed.
It had been his idea. Hers, really, but his to suggest hair-brushing as the chosen activity. It would, he had pointed