The loose curls, fluffed from fingertip touches, escape the messily done bun.
It could hardly be considered a bun at this point. But she doesn't seem to notice.
His hand drifts along her shoulders, catching the sagging scrunchy.
"Sweetheart, even your hair is tired." He teases, releasing the few curls having loyally kept their positions.
"But this needs to be typed..." She mutters, glasses slipping as she furiously types the fleeting story.
His hands come down on her shoulders, thumbs pressing down to massage the knots having formed from the hours of hunching.
"Ooh." She sighs, melting beneath his ministrations. Her fingers slip from the worn keys, abandoning the half-baked scene.
"You've already written over five thousand words today...come to bed." He pouts, hitting a particularly tight knot.
"But...but it's...only three o'clock..." She tries to reason, leaning back to chase his retreating hands.
"It's 3 AM hun."
He wraps his arms around her, tickling her neck with a breathy laugh. She squeezes their intertwined hands, wanting to freeze the moment.
But His warm mouth fades.
But His warm mouth fades. His heavy weight dissipates.
But His warm mouth fades. His heavy weight dissipates. His soft touch evaporates.
She is alone, shivering in the dark living room. The glow from her computer screen is harsh against the eyes, the words searing across her mind.
"The loose curls..."