She never wears her hair down.

He stares at the creamy skin of her bare back, and the strands of long brown hair tickling her waist, and feels some thing in his chest obstruct his breathing.

He remembers when Ian slept with the girl he had been banging on about for weeks.

"I fucked her." He had said, sounding awed.

He had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him.

He has a feeling when he tells Ian about it, he will say in the same, awestruck voice: "I saw her with her hair down."

What a pussy he really is.

She turns her head, and brown eyes meet brown eyes.

He always had been jealous of her eyes – how could she make such a dull colour look so soft and so beautiful?

She reaches out a hand and runs it through his dark, unruly locks.

"God, it's even curlier in the morning." A wry smile plays at her lips.

He pretends to lick his hand and smooth down the mane of hair on his head.

She swats his hand away.

"I like it the way it is."

The thing in his chest burns a little stronger.

She sighs. "I can't believe we did that."

She'll regret it, he thinks suddenly. She'll regret it and I'll spend the rest of the year banging my head against a wall.

"Me neither." His voice is hoarse. He hesitates. "Was it as awesome as I promised?"

The tone is light, but God, does he mean it.

She looks at him, not fooled by his attempt at fake humour.

"Better." She murmurs, and happiness is the only fucking thing his body has space for.

Thank God.

He tugs on her waist so she lays next to him, her soft body pressed against his. He runs an idle hand through the strands of her silky hair.

"I love it like this." He whispers against her ear.

Her hand rests above his heart.

"Maybe I'll wear it down more, just for you."

He can hear the smile in her voice.

...

Young the Giant, thank you for the musical company while I wrote this. :)