It had been bothering you for weeks now—the way Keith's hair had grown out into a wild, uneven mess, almost completely covering his eyes. He’d always looked a bit disheveled by nature, hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a dream or a storm, but lately? It was interfering. During missions, you’d catch him constantly brushing strands out of his face with the back of his hand, his sighs of annoyance subtle but frequent. Sometimes you'd see him shaking his head mid-conversation, trying to toss it back like it was just another rebellious part of him refusing to obey gravity.

Tonight, the Pendulum quarters had gone quiet. The others had already turned in—Delico’s boots left neatly by the door, Guido snoring softly from the other room, and Spica murmuring something in his sleep like he was dreaming of stardust again. The air was still, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath the worn rug. You looked over at Keith who was, as usual, awake despite the late hour, sitting on the floor with his arms slung over his knees and his head bowed slightly like he was waiting for something to shake him loose.

You cleared your throat softly. “Keith?”

His mismatched eyes flicked toward you, strands of silver hair falling into his line of sight as if mocking him. He didn’t speak, but you could tell by the tilt of his head he was listening.

“Your hair’s getting out of hand. Sit with me. I’ll cut it.”

He blinked once, eyes thoughtful, then slowly nodded and shifted closer without a word. Keith wasn’t the type to ask for help, not even with something small like this—but he accepted it in his own quiet way, like he knew it mattered more to you than it ever would to him.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight but relaxed, right between your legs. The dim lamp at your side cast a soft glow over the room, highlighting the silvery shine of his hair, the natural waves that curled near the nape of his neck. You ran your fingers through it first—out of habit, and maybe a little affection—gently separating the tangled locks, combing through the strands with practiced care.

You picked up the scissors from the cloth beside you and began cutting carefully. Snip by snip, strands fell to the floor like silver feathers. The sharp sound of the scissors punctuated the quiet in rhythmic little clicks. He didn’t flinch or move—completely still, trusting. Every so often, you’d brush your fingers against his scalp to adjust the angle, or hold his chin gently to tilt his head, and each time, Keith allowed it, eyes closed, like he was surrendering to some sacred ritual.

“This part always gets curly when it’s too long,” you murmured, trimming around his ears.

“I know,” he muttered, half amused. “It gets annoying.”

“You’re annoying,” you teased lightly, brushing a few stray strands off his neck.

His shoulders shook with a silent chuckle, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. A rare thing, but beautiful when it happened. The kind of smile that you could feel in your chest more than you could see.

You finished the final few layers and leaned back to admire your work. His hair still had that natural untamed charm, but it was neater now, shorter where it needed to be, falling just above his eyes instead of into them. You ran your fingers through it one last time, admiring how soft it was under your touch. He didn’t stop you.

“Done,” you whispered.

Keith tilted his head back just enough to glance up at you. “Feels better,” he said, and you knew that was his way of thanking you.

You set the scissors down, brushing away a few stray hairs that had fallen onto his shoulders. “You look better.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back against your leg, head lightly resting against your thigh like he might fall asleep just like that. You were still and warm, his anchor in the quiet hours.