🖤

“What look?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“The one that says you did something that I’m going to be pissed about.”

His face goes even guiltier, and you stand up.

“It’s not that bad, I promise.”

You sigh.

“Just show me.” you say, and he lifts his hat up.

His hair is gone.

His hair is tapered low to his head, buzzed until only a faint stubble remains, and you try not to gasp.

He rubs a hand over his scalp, grinning.

His hair is also faded, which lets you know he stopped by his barber after work rather than impulsively grabbing some clippers during his lunch break.

“It’ll grow back” is the first thing he says after your prolonged silence.

You wish you could say you hated it. It would be so much easier if you hated it.

However, this is Kyle and somehow the low cut brings out the contours of his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw, further proving your theory that there’s nothing in this world that could make Kyle Garrick ugly.

“Love,” he says, shifting on his feet. “You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“You cut your hair,” you say.

“Yes.” he sighs, as if he’s relieved that his decision didn’t also end his relationship.

You lift your hand before stopping. He grabs your wrist, lifting it to his head and the short black stubble tickles your palm. Your nails lightly scratch his head out of habit, and his eyes flutter.

“You’re so spoiled,” you mutter and he grins.

“Got you to blame for that.”

You suppose he did.

But how were you supposed to let him walk around using two-in-one shampoo?

You had seen it during the first time you slept over at his place, popping your head out of his shower to show him the bottle.

He looks over from where he’s standing at the sink, toothbrush half out of his mouth, as his eyes slowly move over your body before focusing on what’s in your hand.

“Yeah?” he asks, leaning over to spit out his toothpaste, towel low on his hips.

“Is this what I think it is?” you ask, and he continues brushing his teeth.

“It’s shampoo.” he shrugs.

“Kyle, how is your hair not dry?”

He rubs a hand over his hair, looking at himself in the mirror above the sink.

“Looks fine to me,” he says and you blindly reach your hand out.

“Let me feel. I don’t trust you after seeing this,” you say, and he smiles around his toothbrush, leaning his head over so you can feel his hair with your soapy hand.

You hum thoughtfully, and Kyle can almost see the pinched look you get on your face when you’re thinking hard about something.

“It’s not the worst,” you decide, and reach your hand back inside the shower. “But you should really use a leave-in.”

“Not a ton of time for a wash day when you’re doing surveillance in Lebanon, love,” he says.

Your stomach twists, lips pressing into a tight line as you stand underneath the running water.

Kyle’s told you the bare minimum about his job. His friends call them “first-date” stories. The ones that leave a girl impressed just enough that she’ll want to see him again.

But you’ve never thought about what it must mean to join the military as a boy and learn how to become a man.

“Come over to my place on Sunday,” you say, turning the shower off and grabbing the towel he brought for you. “I have some products for you.”

“Yeah?” he says round his toothbrush, pulling you to stand in his arms. “Gonna make me pretty like you?”

You laugh.

“You don’t need any help with that.”

It becomes a routine after a month.

You start at the kitchen sink since that’s easier with his height, a towel wrapped around his neck and your nails scratching over his scalp as you clarify, condition, and work a hair mask in while you both catch up on a TV show.

You’ll then shift towards the couch, candle burning and music lowly playing through some speakers.

You’ll part his hair, layer on creams and oils until his scalp tingles pleasantly from the herbs and he can barely keep his eyes open.

It’s at that lazy, content smile that you realize Kyle Garrick loves being cared for.

Even if he refuses to admit it.

But after a few weeks of studying your hair products and watching as you do your own hair care routine every night, he shows up at your front door with a grocery bag full of products and big eyes.

You smile.

“Did you get a spray bottle?“

He scoffs.

“Of course. What do you take me for?”

For whatever reason, that makes you laugh, and you open your door wider to let him in.

“I’ll clear off a shelf.”

“Kyle Garrick!” you shout from the bathroom, and he freezes.

He says a quick prayer to whatever god may be listening that you all you need is help killing a bug and that he hadn’t forgot about a date you two had scheduled.

You suddenly appear at the door of the bathroom.

“Have you been using my conditioner?”

Oh.

Oh shit.

In your hand is your favorite conditioner that leaves your curls softer than a dream and smells so good that Kyle would linger in hugs just to sniff your hair.

You’ve only caught him once or twice.

It’s also become his favorite; he chooses that conditioner on the nights he washes his own hair, which are truly few and far between.

“Just once or twice,” he says, rubbing a hand across his curls. While he’s been prone to fidgeting with his hair when he’s anxious or bored, he’s almost constantly putting a hand through his hair since you’ve altered his hair care routine.

“It’s almost halfway gone. This is like fifty dollars, and I bought it two weeks ago,” you whine, and he wraps his arms around you.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Buy yourself one too. I’m not sharing anymore,” you grumble and he laughs against your head.

“Whatever you want, love.”

Kyle becomes spoiled quickly, trusting you to style his hair and even letting you braid his hair when you’re bored or find inspiration somewhere.

“Hold still,” you say and he shifts under your parting comb.

“You’re so heavy-handed,” he says, and you sigh, zooming in on the photo of the back of Lewis Hamilton’s head on your phone.

“You’re the one who said you liked his hair.” You begin braiding, and he shifts one more time.

“Only because you wouldn’t stop bringing it up!”

You roll your eyes, scratching his head gently and he shuts his eyes, leaning into your palm slightly.

“We’re almost done,” you say, parting his hair into three more sections.

He nods, wrapping his hand around your ankle, rubbing a lazy circle on your skin.

He couldn’t stop looking at himself for the next few days.

It was only after he had mentioned needing a haircut and you had looked at him with big eyes that he drew the line.

“You are not coming near me with clippers. I have a barber for that,” he says immediately and you laugh, kissing his cheek.

“It was worth a shot.”

You really shouldn’t have been so surprised that he was going to get it cut.

“How long until you leave again?” You sigh, and his gaze softens.

“Should fly out in a few days, and the helmet’s bad enough without all the creams and oils in it,” he says.

“It’ll grow back?” is what you say, but something else lies underneath it.

You’ll come back to me?

Kyle kisses the inside of your wrist.