[ Part 2 of Unsent Messages, since this old prompt fits so well ]

"Hey, [ REDACTED ]!" They huff, pointing to their hair, "Mind explaining this?"

I bat my eyelashes innocently and hum, "Explain what?"

Their hair, which usually rests in a beautiful, fluffy, face-framing style is now messily tied up into several braids. The braids are sloppy and casual, lovingly held together by random, different colored hair ties.

"I, for one, think you look great," I chuckle, lips upturning at their annoyed huff. They're pretty cute when they're upset.

Wait, what?

"Yeah, right. For someone who loves my hair so much, you certainly don't do it justice," They grumble, crossing their arms and plopping onto the ground beside me.

Despite my protests, they tug out the braids, their hair falling down in loose ringlets. My breath catches - their hair, wavy and a little frazzled falls perfectly against their face. It looks wind-tousled, as if they had just returned from flying a kite at the beach. With the sun streaming in from the window behind them, they look almost...ethereal. Angelic, even.

What.

Seriously, what are these thoughts?

I haven't been thinking straight after reading their unsent message (haha, title drop :D). That draft...

"You look really good," I blurt, cursing myself internally. "I-I mean, your *hair* looks really good. It's all wavy, and stuff. Yeah."

Their cheeks warm, and I notice that they look a little disappointed.

"You think so?" They ask, tugging at a curl. I nod, watching them fidget with their fingers. "Do you think I should start styling my hair like this more often, then? I could probably recreate it easily enough, without resorting to whatever those braids were."

I blink, before tilting my head to the side. "Why? I mean, it looks nice, but I thought you liked your current style."

They look at me - and I mean, *really* look at me - before muttering, "You're so dense sometimes, y'know? I asked because it seems like you like it. This hairstyle, I mean."

My breath hitches, and I can feel my ears start to burn. I hope they don't notice the sudden pop of color in my face. Their lips curve into a smile, and I can't help but notice just how much brighter everything seems.

"Wow, it got warm in here," I laugh, awkwardly shifting in place.

"Really? I didn't notice," They frown, before scooting closer. Then, they grab my hands - pull them close to their chest, and drop the hair bands into my open palm.

"Anyways," They mutter, "I know you can do better than whatever...*that* was. You should do my hair again."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Absolutely, Your Majesty. Whatever Your Highness desires," I tease, making them roll their eyes.

I listen to them hum quietly, eventually settling into a comfortable rhythm as I braid their hair. Left, right, middle, repeat.

. . .

"Hey, Ajax?" I asked, slipping my hand into theirs. "Have you ever been in love before?"

They looked at me breifly, before glancing away. "Yes," they replied, an unfamiliar look resting on their beautiful features.

"I guess that's not too suprising," I nodded, giving their hand a squeeze. "It's different for everyone, right? What does it feel like to you?"

They hesitated, slowing their pace for a moment. Then they leaned forward and I, startled at the sudden proximity, was unable to do anything but blank as they pecked me on the cheek.

"You--"

I choked, cut off by a sudden jab to the side.

"That," They answered, "is what love feels like to me."

"Is it supposed to hurt so much?" I frowned, rubbing at my aching sides.

. . .

"...there!" I exclaim, tying off the final braid, "All finished!"

I step back to admire my handiwork, using my phone to take a few photos of their front, back, and sides.

I hand them my phone, and they admire the photos, nodding in approval. "Not bad." They agreed, lips twitching at my triumphant and self-satisfied smile. "These should give my hair that nice affect when I wake up tomorrow, too. Do you think Rozalyn will like it?"

My smile falters, "Right, we have school tomorrow. I forgot." I hadn't even thought of leaving until now, the idea suddenly so heavy on my chest that I notice it's suddenly difficilt to breathe. Weird.

Have I always felt so hesitant about leaving their side?

The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I begin to feel. My heart speeds up, beating so quickly that my breath struggles to keep up with it. The blood rushes to my head, making me feel dizzy and unsteady on my feet.

"...are you good?" They ask me, brows furrowing in concern.

"I don't know," I reply, biting my lip. I'm reluctant to tell them about the sudden increase of butterflies and stabbing-pains in my sides. About the rose-tinted lenses that suddenly manifest when I look at them, or the aches my heart feels when I force myself to look away. Will they think I'm being ridiculous?

"What's wrong?" They demand, suddenly much closer. Their worried hazel eyes scan my face, searching for an answer I'm not sure they'll find.

"Well, I'm actually hoping you'll tell me," I sighed, wringing my hands together. If I keep how I'm feeling bottled up, it's bound to explode and burn everyone (myself included) as a result.

"What?" Their frown deepens, and they take a step backwards to tilt their head.

"Recently, I've been feeling really weird. I'm flustered all the time, and my heart starts beating uncontrollably. I can't stop thinking about it. It's hard to breathe, and my stomach's filled with butterflies that turn to ash when I'm alone."

Their eyes widen with an indiscernible emotion, "[Redacted], that sounds like--"

"And what's weirder?" I interrupt quickly, "Is that I only feel this way when I'm with you."

A few beats pass before they speak.

"...Oh."

"Is that bad?"

Their face lights up with delight, "Not at all."