Rudra grabs the band and tugs it off, making his silky waves tumble from the bun. He hands the black hair tie to me, running his fingers through his hair to get the knots out. The wind gives him an assist, and when he places his clip between his teeth so he can gather his hair in his hands again, it’s impossiblenotto stare. I watch, fascinated, as he tugs the clip from his mouth, securing his hair expertly, not a strand brushing his face.
Most guys I’ve known have had short hair, so hair-related actions have been exclusively attractive in girls for me. Like that one time Iwatched my crush in high school amass her amber locs and pineapple them, exposing the nape of her neck. But there’s something so relentlessly attractiveabout watching a guy do that to his hair too.
He glances down at his hair tie, still clutched in my hand, then back up at me. “Aren’t you going to tie your hair?”
“Oh. Um—yeah. One sec.” I fumble with my hair, which is flying all over the place at this point. I tie it up, hoping it stays, but the strands just keep breaking free. “Damn it,” I say, pulling the hair tie out and thrusting it back into his palm. “My hair is too straight for this.”
“Turn around. Let me do it for you.”
“Do what?”
“Just turn.”
I hesitantly turn, my back facing him, staring at the view rushing past outside. Rudra shifts closer to me, until I can feel his warm breath on my neck.
“Can I—?” he asks. I nod.
Rudra brings his hands up and collects the hair from the front of my scalp to the back, accumulating it at the base of my neck. His fingertips are feather soft as they brush against my temples, then the space between the tip of my eyebrows and hairline, and loop over my ears. I shut my eyes tight, the sensation of being touched so gingerly—in spots I never thought could elicit any reaction in me—nearly bowling me over.
It’s warm and comforting, the way he gathers my hair, combing it with his fingers, grasping strands as they slip loose and tucking them back in place. I’ve only ever had a few people touch my hair like this before: Mummy whenever she used to comb it for school, Papa when he used to give me coconut oil massages every Sunday, Nani when she used to stroke my hair back so she could properly feed me dahishakkar before my exams. And Priti... when we used to watch all those hairstyle tutorials together on YouTube and experiment on each other’s hair.
The memories send a wave of nostalgia through me.
I shiver as Rudra’s fingers accidentally touch the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck. He separates my hair into three partitions, then braids it expertly, tying the end of the plait with the hair tie.
“Done.”
I am clutching my hands together so tight the blood has drained from my palms. I can still feel the ghost of his fingers in my hair, his tender touch on my ears. What would it be like... to be kissed there?
“Thanks,” I croak, repositioning myself so we’re side by side again.
“No problem. You should braid your hair when it gets into your face. Especially because it’s straight now.” His eyes are like cups of hot chocolate. “It used to be wavy before, right?”
“Yes, like yours. I got it done at the beginning of the summer. My hair was always too frizzy to manage.”
“When the treatment wears off, you should try wavy hair creams. They work for me.”
My next words are unexpected, but they spill out anyway, because there seems to be little connection between my brain and mouth these days. “Why? You don’t like the straight hair?”
Rudra looks surprised by my question. “No. It looks good either way.”
“Sorry,” I say, kicking myself inwardly. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I was just curious; I’m not sure if I’m going to keep it this way.”
Rudra’s eyes scroll across my face, glazing over. “You have a heart-shaped face, and the wavy hair complemented that. Especially when you used to part it at the center. But the straight hair brings out thebrown in your irises. It makes the crinkles in the corner of your eyes stand out and...” His voice suddenly trails off, as if he’s just realized what he’s saying. He coughs, breaking his gaze, flicking his eyes to the dark trees outside.
I stare at him, speechless. A million thoughts are careening through my mind all at once, and I can’t seem to grasp a single one, can’t seem to maintain a hold on my emotions.
“Rudra—” I start, but a ping cuts me off. I glance down at my phone on my lap, screen turned upward and lighting up our dark little corner in warm blue. It’s a message from Amrit.
@amrit_ka_achar
Well, what do you know, I’m still thinking about you.
Discomfort lodges in my throat. For the first time, I don’t feelanythingwhen I read the message from him. I lock the screen, looking up at Rudra, collecting my thoughts again—
When I see it.
The look on Rudra’s face. His features have hardened, and the skin around his jaw tautens.
