(( joel is in his 40s, reader mid20s. just cute. fluff. starting off soft. it is HOT out there, folks. stay hydrated. a serenade to my texan homies being burned alive out there))
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Texan summers SUCK. Most anyone will agree the scorching sun creates a less than optimal living environment for, well, literally everyone. Amidst this fire-toned madness you have found yourself a safe haven in front of two rickety metal fans. Semi-questionable finds from a thrift shop. You’re convinced those over-hours during the summer will be their downfall. You’ve rolled your shorts up to your hips and put on the baggiest tank too you could find, but everything still feels like it’s just too hot.
The glass door to the garden slides open. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. You tilt your head way back to the ceiling. Joel’s figure hovers over you. Observing you as you have places yourself between the fans and the sofa on the scratchy carpet. He’s wearing a thoroughly-sweated-in white shirt and some semi-embaressing utility cargo shorts. Joel is a Texan at heart and a master at looking like the sun doesn’t want him between 6 wooden planks.
“Ain’t that hot” His voice is a little hoarse. Scratchy.
“Is too. I am one whole degree away from melting as a whole”.
He sits on the sofa behind you and yanks his work boots off and, by your past pleading wishes, places them neatly beside the sofa. He rummages through the trinket dish on the side table. You can hear him scoot over the sofa.
Suddenly, his fingers gently rake through your hair, collecting free-roaming strands around your face. His hands are big and calloused, but his touch is gentle and slow. You think you might be made of thin glass. When you’re convinced he’s gathered all the stray strands, he starts working on your hair silently. The room is devoid of sound other than the whirring of the fans. Him working on your hair is betrayed by the gentle tugging on your head and the fact your hair is no longer flailing around like a parasol in a gust of wind.
He huffs as his work is complete and he gently rests the braid - as you feel it to be - against your back. A faint hum behind you tells you he’s pleased with his work. God forbid this man ever does anything haphazardly. His self-reflection turns into groaning as he pushes himself off the sofa, squatting down in front of you. You want to make a comment about how his knees popped. How he’s old. But his gentle hand runs through your hair. A faint smile grows on his lips.
“You’re somethin’ else”
You blush and argue “You made me look like this”.
Many more warm days follow and you go through every morning with your hair untied. And he sits behind you again. And he braids your hair over and over. And when he lays with you that night. He will untangle that braid amidst a warm kiss.
You’ll hear him claim your untied hair gives him ‘something more to grab on to’.
