them from the bottom. “I like this,” I say, letting out a contented sigh. “Hmm?” “This thing we do when I’m overthinking, and you’re here to calm those thoughts down by combing my hair or applying lotion to my arms.” “I do love your arms.” His eyes twinkle playfully. “And your lion’s mane.” Even when the comb gets stuck in my wild hair, I barely feel the pull on my roots from his delicate touch. “Do you know why I chose the bathroom for us to communicate?” he asks, his tone more serious. “Because you’re evil and get off on using my PTSD against me?” He tugs on a strand of my hair, a small
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