mousse

Lucy laughs when she sees him, but it's not cruel. Lucy couldn't be cruel if she tried. "Lorcan," she says with a giggle, covering her mouth with a pale hand. "What is that in your hair?"

Absently he raises his hand to run through his blonde-brown waves. He's met, not with the usual softness, but cool wet gel in hair that's stiff and flattened to his scalp. "It's mousse," he says, biting down on his lower lip as his light green eyes cast downwards. "I wanted to look nice for our date."

Lucy's face softens and she has to resist the urge to let out an audible "aww," before she's struck with an idea and her face is transformed by the cheeky, impish grin that crosses it. "Have any more?" she asks.

He nods and digs his hand into the faded, worn, messenger-style bag he wears slung over his shoulder and pulls out the small tub he borrowed from his brother. He passes it to Lucy who unscrews the lid and dips in her hand.

Before he really knows it they're both laughing into Lucy's handheld mirror, sporting matching mohawks.