Midnight Strands

 The night air was cool against her skin as she sat cross-legged on the bed, twisting a long, thick strand of hair around her finger. It slipped through effortlessly, soft as silk, falling back into place like it had a mind of its own.

She sighed, tilting her head, letting the heavy curtain of it spill over her shoulder. The moonlight streaming through the window caught the deep waves, making them shimmer—dark, glossy, *endless*. It was too much hair, really. Unruly. Impossible to tame. But she loved the weight of it, the way it felt against her skin, the way it *moved*.

She reached for the brush on the nightstand, fingers closing around the cool handle. Slow strokes, from crown to tip, again and again, each pass smoothing the strands, coaxing them into an impossible softness. She could *feel* the tension melt away, feel the slow pull against her scalp, the quiet, steady rhythm of bristles gliding through hair.

It felt *good*.

Too good.

She bit her lip, catching her reflection in the mirror across the room. Her hair was everywhere, spilling down her back, over her shoulders, pooling into her lap like a dark tide. She gathered it in both hands, twisting it up, pulling it tight—just to feel the way it tugged against her skin—before letting it all tumble down again in a wave of silk.

A shiver traced its way down her spine.

She knew she should tie it up, braid it, do *something* to keep it under control. But she didn’t want to. Not tonight.

Tonight, she just wanted to *feel it*.

She leaned back against the pillows, exhaling slowly, her fingers still tangled in the long, soft strands. Outside, the wind whispered against the windowpane, but inside, everything was quiet. Still. Warm.

She closed her eyes.

And let her hair have its way.