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Six watches them leave with a worried expression.
I have something planned that might take her mind off things. Leaving Bennet to stew over his paperwork, I take her hand and lead her upstairs to my room.
“I know you’re mad at me, but do you trust me?”
“I’m not mad at you, I’m… frustrated. I’d rather you all treat me the way you’d treat any other girl.”
“But you’re not any other girl. I feel confident speaking for all of us when I say this - you’re special, Six. Not because you have PTSD or retrograde amnesia or any of those other big words Slenderman threw out at you.”
She snorts. “Slenderman?”
“It’s a horror movie, we’ll watch it later if you want.” I smirk, glad to diffuse the tension in any small way. “We don’t think you’re a delicate flower. We think…. we think you’re ours, and we’ll do anything to make sure you are safe. Even if it means protecting you from ourselves sometimes.”
Leaning down, I kiss her softly, pulling her soft bottom lip into my mouth and deepening the kiss a little. I pull back and give her another soft peck.
“I still think it’s bullshit,” she deadpans.
I chuckle but pull her towards the bathroom. “You didn’t answer the other question,” I remind her. “Do you trust me?”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
She eyes me warily. “I suppose not… Yes, I trust you.”
Her expression makes me laugh harder.
Pulling her behind me, I grab a chair and head toward the bathroom. I set the chair facing the mirror and gesture for her to sit.
“What’s this?”
“A chair.”
“You’re an asshole.” Laughing, she side-eyes me but sits anyway. Grabbing a bath towel, I drape it over her shoulders and open a small black bag on the counter. Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline when she sees the clippers.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shave your head. Not all of it, anyway.” I pull up a picture on my phone of an actress with one side of her head shaved. It looks edgy and cool and sexy. I’m hoping a haircut like this could help with her self-image.
She looks up at me with an excited grin. “You can do that?”
“I think so. It’s definitely not something I’ve ever done before,” I warn her. “But I don’t think we’re likely to visit a salon any time soon.”
“It’s not like you could make it any worse.” She shrugs. “And you guys seem to have plenty of hats.”
“So, yeah? You want to try it?” I wipe my sweaty hands against my jeans.
I’m the tiniest bit nervous, but it doesn’t look too hard. I studied a lot of photos and YouTube videos before I fell asleep last night. That doesn’t make me a pro by any means, but I think I can pull it off. Hopefully I’m not overconfident, I’d hate to screw up and make it worse for her.
“Let’s do it.”
I get everything ready, putting a guard on my clippers and pulling out some scissors. Releasing her hair from the messy bun she has it in, I stand behind her with a comb, working out any tangles and sectioning off her hair the way I saw it done in the tutorials. I spend maybe a little too long pulling the section back to test how it will look and make sure it’s going to work. Her scar and the part the surgeons shaved goes back a little farther than what would be considered “fashionable”, but I still think it’s going to work.
Finally, I think I’ve got the sectioning correct and tie her hair off to the side. Standing in front of her, I hold the section I’ll be shaving and grab the scissors.
“Last chance to chicken out.” I joke.
“Do it.” There isn’t a trace of apprehension on her face as I cut off a large chunk of her hair. She taps her fingers absentmindedly, watching me move around her with absolute, and probably misguided, trust.
She startles at the sound of the clippers turning on, but laughs it off, gesturing for me to continue. As I’m working, I happen to glance down. Her face is contorted in pain, her eyes closed tightly as possible.
