Elliot finds a pen on the table—red, capped, ordinary, definitely Julia's—and twirls it between his fingers like he's deciding if it has any better purpose than ink. Then, without a word, he steps behind me.
I pause, paintbrush hovering midair, as he gently gathers my hair. His touch is careful, almost absentminded, like he's done this before—because he has. Dozens of times. In study rooms. In the art lab. In my old bedroom, before everything cracked.
"I start to think you want to be hairstylist," I comment.
Elliot chuckles. "If only my client is specifically you."
He twists my hair into a makeshift bun and secures it with the pen, tucking loose strands with the soft precision of someone who still remembers how I like it—loose enough not to pull, tight enough to hold.
I don't stop him. I don't even flinch. But when his fingers graze the back of my neck—right over the sensitive spot where skin meets spine—I shiver.
