hey so. was anyone gonna tell me that last year I wrote *the* most tender lonan & harrison moment in feeding habits ORRRRR (harrison cuts lonan’s hair):

On the floor, Harrison eases Lonan’s skull over his knee and mimics what Suzanna does for him every other month: a modest section between his index and middle finger, then a tentative snip. A section. A snip. As he cuts, chips of Lonan’s hair falling to the tile, he notes the geography of Lonan’s skull, rough with uneven hair. He’s so focused on taming it all to one length that at first, he doesn’t notice when Lonan flushes crimson all the way to his throat. How he blinks rapidly to dislodge the tears netting his eyelashes, and eventually covers his face with his hands. Harrison snips again, and Lonan makes a strangled noise, like an animal’s cry. Tentative at first, like a short clearing of the throat, and then ugly, like a caribou dying. Harrison clenches his jaw, knowing it’ll only be harder to cut Lonan’s hair if he too starts to cry, but that doesn’t matter. Within seconds, his eyes swell, and as he snips, hair scattering like both of their old lives dissipating, he smooths his free thumb over Lonan’s forehead. He doesn’t know what else to do. How to imbue comfort. He’s not like Suzanna who understands that sometimes a person just needs another person to appear with a plate of papas, or a rented chick flick, and just be there. Within minutes, Lonan’s hair is at a new normal: shorter than it’s been in years, but in shape to regrow. Harrison sets the scissors onto the tile. He cups Lonan’s cheek with his palm, brings his forehead so close to his that they nearly touch. And he’s there. A bamboo stake waiting for a strand of ivy to give it new purpose.