DASHIELL
I stood under the hot water longer than usual, letting it beat against my shoulders. My hair hung heavy and wet down my back. I reached for the mild, fragrance-free shampoo in the plain white bottle and worked it slowly through the strands. The scent was clean and almost nonexistent—exactly how I preferred it.
Halfway through rinsing, a spot near the back of my scalp started to itch. It was just out of comfortable reach beneath the wet strands, the kind of persistent itch Alexander usually noticed before I said anything. He would slide his fingers into my hair, scratch the exact spot with slow, careful movements, then continue as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
I waited a second then ignored it.
Calling Alexander was out of the question.
I finished, turned off the water, and stood still as the last of the heat faded. Stepping out, I pulled a large towel around myself and opened the glass door.
Alexander was leaning against the bathroom counter, arms loosely crossed. He looked completely at ease, as if the closed shower door and my silence hadn't bothered him at all. That irritated me more than it should have.
I dried off quickly and walked past him without speaking. In the bedroom I pulled on soft short sleep shorts and an oversized white T-shirt that hung loose on my frame. The fabric felt familiar and comforting. I sat on the edge of the bed, picked up my wide-toothed comb, and began working it carefully through my damp hair, starting from the ends.
Alexander followed a moment later and leaned against the doorframe, watching. I kept combing, eyes fixed on the floor. Neither of us spoke.
He broke the silence first.
"Give me the comb."
I dragged the teeth through another section, careful of the knots. "No."
A quiet beat. Then, lower: "I wasn't asking."
"And I said no."
The mattress dipped behind me. He had crossed the room without a sound; his shadow stretched across my lap before I felt the warmth of him at my back.
"Little anomaly."
"I can do it myself."
"I know you can." His thumb brushed once, absently, across my knuckles. "But you've been combing the same section for the last two minutes."
I blinked and looked down. The front strands were nearly dry. The back of my hair was still dripping onto my shirt.
"…Oh."
The corner of his mouth lifted smugly. That somehow annoyed me more. I held on. He held on. For a few seconds neither of us moved. Then I exhaled through my nose and loosened my grip.
"…Only the back."
Alexander took the comb as though accepting something fragile. "Only the back."
He gathered the damp length with surprising gentleness, separating it into smaller sections before drawing the comb through each one in slow, patient strokes. He never pulled or rushed. Every knot was worked free before he moved on.
Without meaning to, my shoulders loosened.
"You've stopped frowning," he said quietly, his hot breath fanning my ear and sending a shiver down my spine.
"I wasn't aware I was."
"You were."
I huffed. "…Don't ruin it."
He breathed out a laugh. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Alexander continued combing in silence for another few moments, the slow strokes through my hair oddly soothing. Then his free hand settled lightly at the back of my neck, thumb brushing over the damp skin there in a slow circle.
I stiffened slightly.
He didn't stop. The comb kept moving through the remaining strands while his fingers worked gently against the tension in my neck. A moment later I felt his mouth press against the side of my throat.
"She doesn't matter."
I frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?"
"No."
His hand left my neck and slid down to rest against my waist, fingers spreading over the soft fabric of the shirt. He pulled me back a fraction until my spine met his chest.
"You're a terrible liar, my anomaly."
"I don't lie very often."
"True." He murmured softly. "Which is why you're particularly unconvincing now."
I folded my arms. "I wasn't lying."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
He lowered his head, his lips brushing my temple before lingering near my ear.
"My attention was never on Bianca." His voice stayed calm, but every word landed with conviction. "When the object of all my attention is already here, my eyes have nowhere else to go."
For a moment I forgot what I'd been preparing to argue. His cheek brushed gently against mine like a cat, a small breath caught in my throat.
"You're warm," I murmured.
"So are you."
His hand drifted once across my hip in a slow, absent stroke before becoming still again.
"I saw her looking at me," he continued. "I also saw you watching her watch me."
Heat crept into my face. "I was observing."
"I wasn't…" I searched for the right word. "…upset."
His eyes held mine.
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"You folded your clothes twice."
"…That was unrelated."
"You slammed the shower door."
"…Also unrelated."
A pleased hum vibrated against my skin. "You're adorable when you're territorial."
"I am not territorial."
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "Then I have absolutely nothing to worry about."
I frowned harder. "…I didn't say that."
He studied me in that unsettling way of his, as though he'd just uncovered another piece of a puzzle no one else even knew existed.
"You know," he murmured, "this is new."
"What is?"
"You."
I frowned. "I've been here the entire time."
"That isn't what I meant." His thumb rubbed the shell of my ear. "You've never cared when someone looked at me before."
"I don't think I noticed before."
"You noticed today."
I thought about it for a moment. "…Yes."
"And you disliked it."
"…Yes."
He looked at me as though I'd just confirmed a theory he'd been testing for months.
I narrowed my eyes. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
"That seems unfair."
"I've spent months wondering whether your brain would ever decide I belonged to it in quite this way."
I blinked. "My brain decided?"
"It appears so."
I considered that with genuine seriousness. "…That would explain why it feels different."
I turned a little more toward him. "I didn't like her looking at you. I especially didn't like the way she looked at your neck."
Alexander's eyebrows rose. "My neck?"
"The open part of your shirt."
His expression became almost unbearably pleased. "I see."
"I also didn't like when she smiled at you."
"She smiles at everyone."
"She smiled at you longer."
A slow breath left him, somewhere between satisfaction and disbelief. "My anomaly," he said quietly, "are you jealous?"
The word sat between us. I searched for the correct answer instead of the quickest one.
"…I think I might be."
For a second he simply looked at me. Then he reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
"I've performed operations lasting twelve hours," he said softly. "I've published papers people said couldn't be written. I've been called brilliant more times than I can count." His forehead rested briefly against mine. "I don't believe any of that has ever pleased me as much as hearing you say those five words."
My cheeks grew warm. "…That's a very strange thing to admit."
"I've never claimed to be normal."
"No," I said, unable to stop the small smile pulling at my mouth. "You definitely haven't."