Page 61 of Fighting Spirit

I redouble my efforts to detangle my hair. I need to figure out a better way of keeping it up under the mascot head because whatever I’m doing now isn’t working. Somehow, every day, it ends up more snarled and matted than the last.

On the screen, a group of men in suspenders are doing a terrible job at keeping their house clean.

“You seriously like this?” I wince as the bristles catch on another knot.

“It’s a classic!”

“It’s boring.”

“You just have no taste.” Rowan looks over at me, frowning as he takes in the scene. “You good?” he asks as I almost rip out a chunk of my scalp.

“Fine.”

His eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t comment.

I try to focus back on the movie. From what I can tell, a group of brothers ran into a town and kidnapped a bunch of women, but the women are cool with it because they could get a barn built in record time? I think? And there are dance numbers.

When Rowan said he wanted to show me a movie, this was not what I was expecting, but the songs are pretty fun.

“I miss when men tap danced,” I say wistfully.

“Yeah? You’re into that?”

“Apparently.” I try to keep a straight face, but the corner of my mouth edges up.

“I’m sure you can find a tap-dancing-barn-raising man in suspenders out there somewhere.”

“Maybe without the kidnapping though. That whole thing’s kinda old at this point.”

“You just wanna meet your man the old-fashioned way?”

“Someday, my prince will come,” I sigh. It feels strange to be talking about the idea of dating other men with Rowan, but somehow, it doesn’t feel forced. I’m not performing, trying to pretend to be over what happened. It’s just like how things always have, that easy banter.

It’s only when he turns toward the TV again that I see the red tip of his ear poking out.

“You think I could pull off a shaved head?” I ask after ten minutes, no closer to taming the mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Rowan huffs, setting his plate down. “I can’t watch this anymore.”

“What are you-oh!” I exclaim as he flops down on the bed behind me, his weight causing me to bounce.

He pulls the brush out of my hand. I’m about to protest, but he’s facing me forward, one hand on each side of my head as he positions me where he wants me. His grip is gentle but leaves no room for argument.

“Rowan-”

He shushes me. “Just let me.”

“You don’t have to,” I say weakly as he gathers my hair behind me.

“It looked like it hurt,” he says by way of explanation.

“It gets tangled under the costume.”

He hums an acknowledgment as he gets to work. He starts at the ends, every stroke gentle as he works his way through. It’s like a direct line to my nervous system. Each time he hits a snag, he coaxes it apart, softly running the brush down it over and over until it yields.

I have to bite my lip to stop a moan from escaping at how good it feels. Does he know what he’s doing to me? He’s never struck me as a cruel man, but this right here is something akin to torture. How does he expect me to get over my attraction when he does shit like this?

“You should braid it.” His voice is low and full of something I can’t name.

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