RISK & REWARD ✔️

63 | 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳

WHEN we finally head back up to the room — to be more specific,  we wrap ourselves in towels and I get to watch Slade's awkward half-run because despite insisting that she's fine, she's cold and desperately trying to hurry for the shower. It's kind of cute; we hurry up the stairs, hurry down the hall, get to our room and despite being in a rush she gets the door for me and lets me in before she follows.

We get inside, and I retire to the floor, phone in hand, body wrapped in my towel. From here, Slade looks even taller than usual; I gesture her into the bathroom, and I watch my favorite not-so-little biker go hobbling in like her knees have frozen solid and she's stuck hunching over. I'm fine waiting; I can amuse myself, tune out the goosebumps rising on my skin.

The water turns on. Slade's towel flicks out the door before she presumably finds a place to hang it.

Quite domestic of us, I think. Go swimming, come up, wait for our turns in the bathroom. Domestic. Real couple activities.

Of course, until Slade's head appears out the door; her brow is furrowed, face slightly flushed as she looks at me and my little huddle on the floor, looks back over her shoulder, and says, quietly, "there's enough room in here for us both."

Slade is leaving her swimsuit on. I figured as much, and so I leave mine on too but ooh, ooh, we're getting closer, we're getting closer. More comfortable.

The stream of hot water is thin, and it gives us the very perfect reason to stand close together. Like, real close together. Like, intertwined-type close together. I've got my front pressed to hers, and she's stooped over to aim half of the water into her head.

We don't really talk as we do this. At least, she doesn't. I giggle here and there and sometimes she'll respond telling me to move here or get closer or what be it. A few times, however, I catch that little smile wanting to creep back onto her face.

"I need to redo this." She's talking about her hair; she's raking her fingers through her part, ruffling thick layers of black-and-white hair under the stream. "The white's growing out."

"Let me see." At my cue, Slade tries to bend; when that doesn't work, or it's too uncomfortable, she instead just resorts to taking a knee with her head bowed for my inspection.

"It's not too bad." There's probably about an inch of black hair before it turns white; I run my hand up under the coarse mop, pull it apart to check through the rest of half Slade's head. "It's an inch, maybe. Do you have to keep up with it since it's so dark?"

Slade doesn't reply for a minute. My silence seems to surprise her; she sort of twitches under my hands, looks up just slightly. "What?"

"Your hair. Do you have to keep up with dyeing it? Since it's so dark, when it grows out."

"Oh." She sort of sighs. "Yeah."

My brow wrinkles, and I run my hand around to hook under her jaw. "Are you okay? You sound...tired."

The weight of Slade's head falls into my hand as she lets me tip her face up, looks up at me with foggy green eyes and a puff of breath. "I am," she says, quietly, "an' you touchin' my head like that isn't helpin'."

"Oh." Quickly, I let go of her. "Sorry, I — I just wanted to see how grown out it was, that's..."

"I don't mind." She speaks so softly I barely hear it. Her gaze flicks down to my hands. "Touchin'. Feels...nice."

Oh.

When I run my thumbs up the apples of her cheeks, forge my fingers up against her scalp and scratch lightly up to her part, Slade's eyes almost flutter shut. She wavers, leans a little closer; her forehead brushes my thighs before she sleepily straightens up.