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Chocolate Waves
The first time Jane touched it was by accident. The hug was deliberate, of course – his affection had become more tactile since Angela's and Charlotte's deaths. But the brush of his fingers through the ends of her hair? That was an accident.
Sophie had told him to centre himself. Find joy in the moment, no matter how small. It wasn’t easy. He had to go looking for it: a daisy pushing up through a crack in the sidewalk, a cloud shaped vaguely like a sheep, the simple act of enjoying food beyond its function of keeping him alive.
They were insignificant things to most people. But for him, they were tiny bastions. Little beams of light and colour piercing through all the grey in his thoughts.
The first time he touched Teresa Lisbon’s hair, he knew. It would be one of those beacons. His chocolate mooring.
He’d always been drawn to blondes, once upon a time. But he didn’t like Past Patrick much, so most of his old preferences had either faded on their own or been discarded. Some things had stayed – shoes, suits, the watch Angela had given him for their third anniversary. Leather strap, she’d pointed out, so it counted. He’d given her a leather-bound drawing journal in return. It had been on the nightstand when he'd found them.
And, of course, his ring.
Tethers that stretched between his old life and his purpose in the new one.
So it surprised him when his moment of joy was tangled in strands of dark hair.
Back then, it was shorter. The ends skimmed his fingertips, silk-soft, lifting with them the scent of her shampoo; a bouquet of flowers – the whimsical floral of a rose, the brightness of lilies, and the fruity vibe of a few freesias. His breath caught. For a moment, he wanted to lean in, breathe deep, let himself get lost in it, like wandering through a carefully tended garden.
He could have stayed there all day, tracing the different shades – pure cacao to milk chocolate, and warm caramel where the fluorescent lights hit just right.
But he couldn’t.
He had work to do.
•●•
Over the next few months, the garden grew. Sometimes it got a little wild, the smooth chocolate giving way to plush waves.
It suited her. No more than the sleek bob had, but sometimes a wave would fall so close to her jade eyes that it caught on an eyelash, bouncing like a baby in one of those swing things.
He liked that.
It felt playful.
She started pulling it back sometimes. He liked that too – it opened up her face, made her angry eyes even more vivid. He was particularly fond of the time she combed just the sides back and pinned them near her crown. He had no idea what that style was called, but he remembered how her hair had held the scent of the redwoods they'd been scouring looking for Nicole the day before, earthy and fresh.
Just like the time at Bright Arch – when she pinned it loosely at the sides, all silken and ringed – it had caught the scent of the trees, like a blade of grass holding onto the morning dew. It was a less earthy smell, more peppery (he'd found out after the fact it was the California Bay Laurel with its spicy undertones). It had made him hungry for a pepper steak.
Her shampoo game was unpredictable. He suspected she just grabbed whatever was on special, but it made for a fun little guessing game. That night at the restaurant on the way back to Calida, when he fastened that gaudy necklace around her neck, she’d smelled like strawberries – more specifically, like a strawberry daiquiri, bright and fruity, with hints of spiced rum and vanilla. She stuck with that one for a few weeks. Then there was a phase of something slightly herby – rosemary, if he had to guess. He liked that one too.
The time she joked about getting bubblegum stuck in her hair and having to cut a chunk out, he told her she’d look lovely with short hair, that it would suit her eyes. He didn’t doubt for a second that a pixie cut would work with her elfin features. He would have missed feigning reasons to touch it – but, the old oh, there’s a leaf in your hair bit was getting tired, and he was fairly certain she was onto him even though she never called him out on it.
She could shave her head and still be beautiful. Short of a mullet (and he was open to being proved wrong) he doubted there was a style she couldn’t pull off.
After he shot Sheriff Hardy, she had been shaking. He wasn’t much better. In the quiet of that sterile room, all cold steel and tinted glass, she had fallen into his arms. He'd held her tightly, fingers threading through her chocolate waves. Everything else faded – lights, sounds, thoughts – until there was nothing but her.
That night her hair smelled like sweat and dust. But it also smelled like life. Not death. And for that reason alone, it was one of the best breaths he’d ever taken.
When she was on mandatory leave, she cut bangs. Soft ones, parted to the side. He liked how they moved, how they made her eyes seem even larger; green planets pulling him into their orbit, making it far too difficult to look away.
He had once guessed that someone touching her hair could be both intimate and soothing – depending on the person. He got his confirmation when he hypnotised her, patting her head as she rested against his shoulder. He also learned she fit quite well in his arms when he carried her to the chair. He never told her that part. She would have hated the idea of being carried like a sleeping princess.
Letting her hair grow longer suited her too. With it came the more serious bangs – like a dark stage curtain she peered out from underneath, disapproving, but sometimes secretly amused. At times he missed her eyebrows, the way one always lifted much higher than the other when she was onto him, but he loved how her hair spilled down her back.
She got irritated when the bangs grew out too much, especially when they tickled her face. Sometimes, when she sighed, the ends would lift, giving him a little wave. It amused him.
Sometimes, he made her annoyed on purpose, just to see it.
He caught her once, trying to cut her own fringe with a pair of nail scissors and a compact mirror. It was just after seven and most of the team had already clocked out. He knocked on her office door and barely waited a second before stepping in.
“Jane, come on, you have to wait after you knock” she huffed, not even glancing up, the scissors pinched between her fingers.
He moved around to her chair, turning it fluidly. “Here, let me.”
She didn’t put up much resistance when he plucked the scissors from her hand and crouched in front of her.
The moment he raised them, she predictably shrank back into her chair.
“What do you know about cutting hair?” she asked, eyeing him sideways; suspicious not hostile. It was adorable, not that he’d ever tell her that.
“I cut my own hair.”
She squinted, as if searching for the joke.
“You do?”
He shrugged. “Sure. I don’t like barber chairs. Too stiff.”
She shifted a little closer, their eyes catching for just a moment before she glanced away, like she was afraid to hold his stare. Probably for the best. His lingering looks had been harder to rein in lately. Seeing her with Walter Mashburn hadn’t helped.
He had a sneaking suspicion that when he’d shown up at Mashburn’s hotel room that night a week ago, Lisbon had been hiding in the other room. The way Mashburn moved, subtly blocking his path to the bedroom. The champagne on ice – two glasses. And the scent of Teresa’s perfume – warm and spiced, like cinnamon apple pie. Any other conquest and Walter wouldn't have cared much to keep it secret. The glow in her cheeks the morning after confirmed it.
But, he never pushed the matter. Never mentioned it to her. He was happy for her. She deserved a little frivolity. That didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling a little sorry for himself.
“I used to cut my brothers’ hair with clippers,” she remarked – probably uncomfortable with the silence. Or with his proximity. “But I suppose that’s not really the same thing.”
He glanced down. Her scooped neckline gave him an unintentional view: the swell of her breasts and a hint of black satin, with her gold pendant skimming the delicate dip of her collarbone. His mouth went dry like the Sahara at midday. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she took the necklace off before bed – or sex – or whether it was the only thing she left on.
His knees felt less steady than they had a moment ago, and he put a hand out to balance himself…on her thigh. Shit.
She inhaled sharply. But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. So he left it there.
“No, not quite the same thing,” he said, finally answering her question.
He carefully feathered the scissors through her fringe, eyeing his work as he moved. When he was done, fine hairs clung to her cheeks and nose like freckles. He leaned in and blew them away with a whisper of air, gently sweeping the rest away with his thumb.
Her lashes fluttered, then lifted, revealing wide, doe eyes, with every shade of green from sage and emerald, deep enough to dive into.
His gaze dipped to her lips, slightly parted, and he thought about kissing her. He’d be tender, the faintest caress, like a ghosted secret. He wasn’t sure she would’ve stopped him.
“There,” he breathed, straightening slowly, dragging her eyes with him. “Perfect.”
He handed her the mirror and she scrutinised his work, tilting her head slightly.
“Thanks, Jane.”
He smiled. “Any time, Teresa.”
She took him up on the offer a few times after that, whenever she hadn’t found time for the hairdresser. The last time was just before he got himself fired by Wainwright.
She didn’t ask once he was back.
•●•
The last time he saw her before he became a wanted fugitive, she’d pulled her hair into a small, twisted bun. She looked like a tough ballerina and someone had stolen her Pointe shoes.
Teresa had a beautiful neck; lissom and strong. He’d always liked it when she wore her hair in ways that exposed it, elongating the curve from jaw to shoulder.
He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about slipping the elastic from her hair and watching as the strands tumbled free. Raking his fingers through them, slow and deliberate, just to see if she’d close her eyes at the sensation. Just to see if pleasure would flicker across her expression before she caught herself.
•●•
Seeing her after two years on the lam, he wasn’t surprised that hugging her felt like coming home.
Her hair had grown out and the scent of vanilla and honey wrapped around him – all warm and familiar. A quiet reminder of what she’d been to him for so long. His anchor.
He’d been free on the island.
Happy… relatively.
Piecing together who he was supposed to be moving forward.
But there had always been something missing.
A space that only she could fill.
A hole shaped just like Teresa.
As he breathed her in and felt the press of her body against his, he made himself a promise.
One day, he’d be worthy of her.
And when that day came – he’d marry her.
•●•
When he finally kissed her, he let himself savour the silk end of her hair curling under her chin and grazing his knuckles, welcoming him as much as the languid parting of her lips did.
The first time they made love, he let it slip through his fingers as it lay dark against her milky shoulders. That night, he didn’t smell her shampoo – just her. The sweetness of her skin, the humid musk of arousal, and the subtle, intoxicatingly spicy scent that rose from her when she climaxed.
In the nights and mornings that followed, he found an answer to a long-standing question – yes, she sometimes wore her cross to bed and when having sex. And yes, it absolutely felt like the original sin watching it twinkle against her glistening skin, catching the light as she moved, in whatever position they chose.
His favourite might have been when she was on top, one hand gripping the headboard, her hair spilling over her shoulder, damp at her temples as she rode him. Slow at first, drawing it out, teasing him with every roll of her hips until need took over and her rhythm grew desperate and insatiable. That elegant gold cross bounced between her breasts, catching on sweat-slick skin like a symbol of innocence in the midst of something far from it.
And God help him, it was a fucking sight to behold.
On their road trip back to Texas, he'd decided to try something different. One morning, when she was straddling him, his back pressed against the groaning wooden headboard, he reached behind her head, gathered as much of her wild bed hair as he could, twisted it around his hand until his fist met scalp – and tugged.
She moaned, and her back arched, exposing the wetness of where their bodies joined. Her head tipped back, baring the long line of her throat. He pulled her closer, his mouth finding the downy skin near her jaw, cutting his teeth over the sensitive shell of her ear.
When his grip loosened, her eyes flicked open, dark with something provocative. One eyebrow vaulted.
“Do it again,” she purred.
•●•
Now, ten years after they’d said I do (or I sure do in his case) her hair remained one of his favourite (family-friendly) tactile comforts.
He would stroke it absently when she curled up with her head in his lap, half-watching a movie together but mostly just enjoying the weight of her against him.
He’d combed back wet tendrils from her flushed face as she gave birth, whispering encouragements against her damp temple.
He’d helped her clean baby food from it more times than either of them cared to count.
And he’d stared down their dog when the stubborn thing had decided to claim it as his own personal comfort blanket.
Their lives were different now – filled with the loudest chaos and the most tranquil silences – but she was still his home. His heart. His love. His chocolate waves.
🤎🤎🤎