Red Son rested his head between your thighs, perched on the floor as you occupied the bed, fingers entwined in the warmth of his hair, heated by his fiery magic. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, you marveled at the unexpected softness and length of his usually tightly-bound locks. Negotiating your way into this rare moment, he reluctantly agreed to share the space, revealing a more relaxed side he typically concealed.

"Don't misconstrue this, weasel. We're not suddenly best pals," he grumbled, avoiding eye contact as you skillfully massaged his head. Despite the façade, his closed eyes betrayed the enjoyment he sought to hide. His distant demeanor couldn't fully obscure the underlying care, especially evident in the times he came to your rescue.