"Oh?" Asher asks, tilting his head to catch Nathaniel's eye, smiling softly. His brushstrokes never cease, working through the sleep-tangle strands until Nathaniel's hair lies flat against his back, a sheet of auburn silk, fine and soft against his hands.

He's almost reluctant to gather it together, fingers wrapping around Nathaniel's hair at the nape of his neck, holding it in a low ponytail as he places the leopard clasp over the hair, the slender stick sliding through, holding Nathaniel's hair in place.