“Your childhood,” she said, softly. Obedient, she sat, holding very still. “You don’t have to say, if you don’t want to.”
“Good — because I don’t want to,” he tells her, running the brush gently through her hair.
“Should I have tried to sneak in here last night, then?” Summer asked. She rubbed her fingers together, loosening them up, twisting her wrists after. It’s been a while since she lifted a sword, and she didn’t want to strain anything.