Scrunchie

Though she was generally open, sometimes she was shy around him. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to act. She was afraid of what he may think. And so they had indicators of vulnerability for each other. An insinuation, a sudden spontaneity. She wore a sleeky scrunchie, sometimes in her hair, other times on her wrists, or discreetly on her ankle. Hoping but not expecting him to notice it, to sweep her off her feet. To be gentle with her, to be passionate, to show his love for her.

Green, as in a green light. He ended up loving the color green on her, as pretty as she may be in any color, since it was rare, and she was making herself vulnerable to him. Giving herself to him.

“Can I try something?”, he said leaning in a little more than halfway, pausing briefly, awaiting her response. Kissing her.

She gave a giggle leading him away, following a chase in the leaving sun. He bought that scrunchie just for her, it was one of her favorite gifts from him.

...

They liked to attract each other, hiding parts of themselves away, to only show the perfect version of themselves. When they accidentally didn’t, they were embarrassed, but they made each other comfortable, because it was only natural to be human, to make mistakes. But they were comfortable with each other, being able to say anything that came to mind, setting boundaries, sometimes opening them, sometimes closing them, doing things without worry or judgments. Most of the time anyway, and when there, it was always jokingly, playful, with humor.