Page 39 of Into the Light

“What’s happening?” I swung one leg over the stool, but before I could sit, he grabbed me by the waist and spun me around, instructing me to lean back.

“Why?” I questioned, but complied, and he gently placed a towel around my neck. My head was tilted over the sink, and he ran warm water over my hair. “I’m dying your hair back to its original color. If I were an expert, I’d give you any color you desire, but I hope your natural shade is okay?”

I paused, lifting my head abruptly to look at him. He was busy mixing something in a bowl, his eyes on a piece of paper. “What are you doing? Get your hair back in the water,” he instructed.

Instead of obeying, I continued to stare at him in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. I wasn’t sure if I fully comprehended what he was saying. “You’re dying my hair?” I asked, seeking confirmation.

“Yup,” he replied, still not looking at me. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Wait, do you even know what you’re doing to get it back to normal?” I asked once more, still in shock. For a moment, he glanced up at me, then back at the paper and laughed.

It was the sweetest melody filling the small bathroom—deep yet filled with joy, and if I thought my heart was going to burst earlier, it was now on the verge of exploding.

I couldn’t help but think how much I appreciated him for his care, laughter, and for simply being him.

The shock of the situation lingered, and the thought of even liking him in this way scared me. What he was doing for me, shocked me in the best way possible. It was a simple, gentle gesture, yet it was changing my life in a profound way.

As he continued to mix the dye, I couldn’t help but reflect on how much I had hated my hair. My once lustrous locks had become a mess of mismatched colors.

And here he was, offering a solution, taking the time to fix what had been broken. He wasn’t just repairing my hair, he was mending something deep within me.

His focus never waned. It was as if he had done this a hundred times before, though he claimed not to be an expert. As the minutes passed, I relaxed into the unexpected intimacy of the moment. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.

When he finally finished mixing the dye, he looked at me with a small satisfied smile. “All done,” he announced, as if he had completed a masterpiece.

I couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the dye. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice filled with genuine gratitude.

He met my gaze, his deep-blue eyes locking onto mine. In that moment, I felt like he could see right through me, as if he knew the tangled mess of emotions I had been carrying, and for the first time, I didn’t mind. It was as though he was peeling away the layers, revealing the real me underneath.

As he put the dye on my hair, I closed my eyes and let myself embrace the sensation. It was like a cleansing, not just for my hair but for my soul. This simple act of kindness was changing everything, and I was no longer scared of where it might lead.

He slowly painted the dye all over.

“Your neck okay?” he asked, and I laughed because even though I was in a shared fraternity bathroom, this was the experience I was supposed to get at the salon.

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes as his hands worked through my locks. The peacefulness was calming while he concentrated on working on my hair.

“So according to these instructions, you gotta let it sit on your head for twenty minutes.”

I pulled my hair up into a bun on top of my head and lifted off the bowl while sitting on the stool.

“Okay,” I said in a hushed tone. There were a few silent beats between us as he closed the bottles on the countertop and then looked back at me.

“Rain?”

“Mm-hm?” he murmured. There was no thinking right now. No thoughts in my mind other than happy ones. Because for the first time in eight really long months, I felt . . . loved. I grabbed his hands and placed them on my thigh.

“To keep your hands busy,” I whispered.

“Leave them here?” He chuffed, awkwardly leaning over with his hands on my thigh. He cocked an eyebrow, and I chuckled.

“I guess you can move them around or something . . . if you need it.”

His hands rested on my thigh, and the sensation sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine. The warmth of his touch was both maddening and exhilarating.

He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding what to do next. Then, slowly and tentatively, his fingers traced delicate patterns on my thigh.

“Like this?” he asked breathlessly.

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