I'm in the bathroom, digging through the drawers when a shadow passes over the frame, and I look up. Javi is there, stark naked. A powerhouse of muscle and ink. Muscles rippling with tension and golden eyes that are molten with anger.
Those wild eyes move over me, cataloging every detail and trying to piece something together in his own mind. I'm in nothing more than a towel myself, fresh from the shower, wet hair hanging down my back.
He glances at the brush in my right hand, and the dress I've picked out for today draped over the chair. He watches me carefully. Full of suspicion.
He wants to lash out at me. He wants to believe that I am tricking him again. That I was planning to leave. To run away while I had the chance. There is no point in trying to reassure him. He would not believe me, no matter what I said to him right now. So I go about the business of brushing my hair while he watches from the doorway.
"What is it you think you are doing?" he snaps.
"Getting dressed," I answer.
I can see his longing to punish me. To hurt me. To push me away. But I also see the relief hidden behind those harsh emotions. I’ve seen him vulnerable now, and it has changed everything between us.
Even now, the tension still lingers. The chemistry that neither one of us can deny. His palm throbs with the craving to pull me closer. To keep me at arm's length so I can never run away from him. But I think that even Javi knows he is powerless to this force now.
He is softening. Bit by bit, I am chipping away at his armor. At his insecurities. I have seen this transformation. I have no intentions of stopping it.
I point to the comb and scissors laid out on the counter.
"I thought I might give you a haircut today," I tell him softly. "If you'd like."
His eyes move over the comb and then my face. I won't get a firm yes from him. I can already feel him slipping away. It needs to be now. I walk to him and take him by the hand. A hand that is so much larger than mine. A hand that can inflict pain and pleasure in equal amounts.
I stroke my thumb over his palm and smile up at him. Soft. Vulnerable. Nervous. I want him to say yes.
I pull on his arm, and he follows. And when I gesture to the chair next to the sink, he sits.
The chair is small, and he is large. Still naked. He doesn't like it. So I remove my towel and wrap it around his shoulders before placing another over his lap. Towels so large they swallow me whole look like mere scraps on him.
I spread his long hair out and reach for the comb. I don't know how much he'll let me cut off. I don't know if he's even had a haircut since he was a child.
"How short would you like it?" I ask.
He's quiet. Tense. Annoyed.
"Just cut it all off," he answers.
So I cut. And I cut some more. And I keep cutting, waiting for him to erupt. But he never does. When it's short enough, I pull the electric razor from the drawer and start to trim.
It’s a long process. But he does not complain. The longer I work, the more relaxed he becomes. When I am finished with his hair, I move onto his beard. Trimming it to a more manageable level. One that highlights the strong features of his face, but still hides the scars lurking beneath.
And when I am finished, I hand him a mirror. He stares at his reflection for a long time. I don't know what to expect. I don't know if he likes it.
He simply hands me back the mirror and grunts.
"Are you done?"
“Yes.”
He gets up and tells me to finish getting dressed while he walks down the hall to his own room.
I know what will come next. I hasten to put on my dress and wait for it. I wait for his fury. His yelling. And just as I feared, he appears in the doorway a moment later. This time, he is clothed in jeans and a tee shirt. But his fists are locked at his sides. The vein in his neck is pulsing. And his eyes are lasered in on me.
"Where are they?" he demands.
"You don't need them anymore," I whisper.
He stalks towards me, and I scurry back until I hit the wall behind me. He corners me and grabs my face, rough and dominant.