cw this blurb might imply that the reader doesn't have curly hair but hopefully it is ambiguous, like maybe r has a different curl pattern
"What are you doing?" Eddie whispers, face smushed into a pillow. You must've woken him fidgeting with your last pin.
He went to bed early with a headache. You think that it might've been because of the afternoon's events. Poor Ro was being teased at school again for her lovely hair, and Eddie can't stand it, but worse was the face he made when Roan asked if you could straighten it out.
That was not cool. Far from Roan's fault, of course, and gutting.
"Nothing," you whisper, hoping you can tide him back to sleep with some affection, "gimme two seconds, angel, I'm just moisturising."
You're lying. You pin the last rag in place and turn off the light by the mirror before he can investigate the authenticity of what you'd claimed, sliding into bed behind him to hold his waist and press your face to his hot shoulder. He relaxes into your touch. You're not sure who nods off first.
In the morning, he seems to have benefited from being the little spoon; he's singing downstairs while Roan giggles, his mood lightened, his voice high-pitched as he soars up to an octave you didn't know he could reach. You set about pulling the pins and rags from your hair, and brush the resulting curls out very gently. You look pretty, because you look exactly like Roan does after she gets her hair done properly, your hair in curls that are nearly ringlet in form, winding loose toward the scalp and tighter at the ends.
You get dressed for work and make your way downstairs.
"How much toast? One or two?" Eddie's asking.
"I want two, please," Roan says, leaning back in her chair, the pillows slipping beneath her.
Eddie obeys her asking and pops the toaster down with two pieces of bread, and then he turns to you and the easy smile on his face stutters. "Oh."
"Do you like it?" you ask, bringing your hands to your chest with pride, elbows out as you turn one way and the other. "Aren't they pretty?"
"You look beautiful," he agrees immediately, the impulse of a man who's about to get married saying what his future wife tells him to, but then softer is his genuine agreement, "you look really, really stellar. Doesn't she, Ro?"
Roan wraps her arms around the back of her chair, cheek squished to the side. "Your hair is like mine."
"You're lucky," you say, pulling one of the curls behind your ear. You do feel pretty. "It took me ages last night to get it ready and put all of the pins in my hair, but you wake up with your beautiful hair like that every day."
Roan's voice is chest-achingly hopeful, "You think so?"
You twist one way and another to drive the message home for her. Eddie scratches a thin layer of butter and strawberry jelly over Roan's toast and puts it in front of her, a quarter piece miraculously missing.
"You have such nice hair," he says eventually through a full mouth.
You lean over the back of her chair to kiss her cheek and swipe your own quarter piece of toast. "He's right, even if he has no manners."
She giggles and makes herself a little toast sandwich. Her fingers and eyes stay focused on the task at hand, but she says, "Thanks, mommy," quietly and sweetly.
"You're welcome, my little toast monster. How did you eat that much already? You're impressive."
Eddie sidles up to give you a grateful hug from the side, his hands joining over your shoulder as he encourages your face toward his. You lean away from his smacking strawberry scented kiss, but you cover his hands so he can't leave too quickly afterwards.
