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"How's it look?"
Hair open and grazing the back of her neck, bangs for once framing her face instead of wildly sticking out, pressed flat against her cheeks.
She does a little twirl, honey blonde swaying for just a second.
Raising the arm with the red band of May's bow looped around his wrist and up to his elbow, Brendan fingers the black brim of his hat neatly settled atop her head.
(Her smile's expectant, giddy, tip of her nose rosy as she fiddles with the hat, tries to adjust it for the hundredth time.
He wonders if she knows how cute she looks, intensely concentrated on such an inconsequential task.)
"I think," he says as he plays with a wisp of her hair, twirls it around his index finger, his nail grazing the underside of her chin as he does so, "that you should keep it. Suits you much better than me."
Her smile's always made him feel hotter than the midsummer Hoenn sun, and this time's no different.