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With Joss’s hands all covered in sticky dough, she can’t get the hair out of her face; it’s Taylor’s hand that brushes it back behind her ear, before he goes to put the mac and cheese into the oven (the first time he’s managed a holiday recipe entirely on his own).
Such a little thing, that tender brush of his fingers across her brow, yet it sends Joss back to her son’s childhood, to the feel of a boar bristle brush clumsily working its way through her hair.
Had he been five, maybe? six? He’d been fascinated with her hair, so she’d let him fix her up however he cared to, putting up with the times he pulled at a snarl or jabbed her in the eye or brushed too hard over her sensitive ears. Even that occasional pain was worth it, given how relaxed the ritual made her, and how happy it made her son.
Nowadays, of course, Taylor is far too mature to be bonding with his mom in such a girly fashion. But maybe, someday, he’ll be brushing back the hair of his little girls, and, by that time, he’ll no longer think it’s beneath his dignity.