The brush methodically touched her scalp. Gentle. Careful.
Clara stiffened. "This is ridiculous."
"Sit still," Cyra murmured, his voice low and far too close to her ear. The bristles glided through, tugging knots loose without tugging. Cyra revealed her neck on one side. He almost leaned in but stopped himself and kept brushing. Her skin smelled like the lavender soap Natalia had been using to wash her with. He wondered if Clara had been this difficult with her when she assisted her with bathing and dressing.
"You're all thorns and fire whenever someone tries to help you."
She should have shot back something sharp. Instead, her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, surrendering to the rhythm of it. Each stroke was deliberate, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to tame the chaos she'd let herself become.
"I don't mean to be."
The warmth of Cyra's gaze lingered on her skin. Just for a moment, she allowed it. The attention, the banter, the quiet feeling of being cared for. And though she'd never admit it out loud—somewhere deep inside, the wall she'd built so high had shifted, just slightly, to let in just a speck light.
The brush slid through her hair again, slow, careful. Clara let her eyes close. She felt her defenses slipping, the rhythm softening the edges of her thoughts. And before she could stop herself, words she had never said aloud came tumbling out.
"When I was younger, everything I did had to be perfect. My parents weren't cruel, they were… proud. But proud in a way that made me feel like I had to earn it every day. Every grade, every award, every achievement. Love was tied to performance. If I messed up, if I wasn't exceptional, I wasn't sure if I'd still matter."
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. She hadn't even meant to say that much. The brush stilled in his hand, but he didn't interrupt.
She exhaled slowly, the words gathering their own momentum. "So I learned it was easier to keep people out. If no one gets close, no one can see when you fail. And if no one's close, they can't take it away from you either." Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
"It's not about you, Cyra. I just… don't know how to stop protecting myself."
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. Cyra resumed brushing, gentler now, like he understood she'd just laid something fragile between them.
"You know—" he murmured, leaning close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath, "—thorns don't just keep people out. They protect something beautiful and delicate underneath."
Clara blinked, her chest aching in a different way. She hadn't expected comfort. She hadn't expected him to see her at all.
"When I was younger," she continued slowly, "—there was… this boy. He wasn't… I mean it wasn't anything serious. Just… someone who smiled at me the right way. You can say, my first real crush."
Cyra didn't interrupt. He didn't tease. The silence between strokes gave her space.
"He figured out I was smart before anyone else did. How I could solve things. Because of my parents, I thought that's where love came from… someone pushing for your achievements. It made sense at the time." She drew in a breath.
"It turned out he was just using me. Every test, every project… every answer was mine. He made me feel like I was special to him, but it was all just for his own gain. When he didn't need me anymore, he left. He told all of his friends that I was pathetic for thinking he actually liked me. Our whole grade heard about it and horrible rumors even started that I gave away more than just test answers."
The brush paused, resting lightly against her hair. Cyra's voice, when it came, was quieter than she'd ever heard it. "Clara…"
She cut him off before he could soften the edges too much.
"So, when you took me to that museum—when you smiled and played along, and then used me to make your getaway, your alibi—I thought… of back then. That's why it stung more than it should have."
Her throat tightened, but she forced the truth out. "It wasn't just the theft. It was feeling like I was… stupid enough to fall for it again."
The brush resumed, slow, deliberate strokes. Cyra's hand didn't waver.
"I was cruel," he said simply. "Worse, I was predictable. And if it makes any difference—" his voice dipped, low and earnest "—I regret it. More than most of my sins, I regret hurting you."
Clara blinked hard, surprised at the sting behind her eyes. She tilted her head just enough to catch a glimpse of him over her shoulder. His usual smirk wasn't there. No arrogance, no mask—just a rare honesty that made her chest ache.
"You're impossible, you know," she murmured, trying for levity, though her voice cracked. She wiped away a tear that snuck out defiantly.
"And you're unbearable," he countered softly. "Yet here I am. Brushing your hair like a penitent schoolboy."
That earned him a small, real smile. Clara let her eyes fall shut as the brush slid through the last of the tangles, the motion hypnotic. For once, she didn't feel the urge to armor herself with sarcasm. For once, she let the moment hold.
The brush stilled at last, and for a long time neither of them moved. The quiet settled around them, warm and fragile.
When Cyra finally spoke, his voice was so low it almost blended with the hush.
"You were never stupid, Clara. Not then. Not with me. You've only ever been brilliant. Too brilliant for the people who tried to use you. You are more than just your grades. You are brave and loyal — kind and thoughtful. You are everything I strive to be."
Her chest tightened, but this time it wasn't from pain. She didn't answer, not out of stubbornness but because the words sat too heavy in her throat. Instead, she let the silence stay, her hair falling in loose waves across her shoulders, his hand still holding the brush like he wasn't ready to let go.
For the first time, she realized she didn't mind.