It started with a casual glance from Sakura. You’d just finished training, sweat sticking strands of hair to your neck and forehead, and you were trying to push them away with impatient swipes of your hand.

The motion only seemed to make the tangles worse, and the mess of your hair was starting to look almost impossible to fix without scissors.

“You’ve been letting it grow,” she remarked lightly, stepping closer.

Her green eyes flicked over the length that now brushed the tops of your shoulders, the uneven layers showing where kunai and branches had nicked it over the months. “It’s… actually nice. But it’s going to get ruined if you keep leaving it like that.”

You didn’t move as she reached out, taking a small section of hair between her fingers, testing the knots.

She sighed in that half-exasperated, half-fond way she reserved for her teammates. “You don’t brush it properly, do you?” she said, already knowing the answer.

Before you could react, she had tugged you down to sit in front of her.

The training ground was quiet now, the sunset bleeding gold and orange across the sky, and Sakura knelt behind you, pulling a small wooden hairbrush from her pouch. “Hold still. If you try to fight me on this, I’ll knock you out and do it anyway.”

Her hands were surprisingly gentle at first, separating sections with her fingers before running the brush through, starting from the ends and working her way up.

The bristles caught on stubborn knots, and she murmured little instructions—“Tilt your head… there, that’s better… don’t tense up, it’ll only make it worse.”

Each pass of the brush smoothed the wildness away, the soft scrape of bristles oddly calming against your scalp. She hummed quietly to herself, focused entirely on the task.

It wasn’t the usual battlefield sharpness in her touch, but something steadier, more deliberate. Every time she loosened a particularly bad tangle, she worked it free patiently instead of yanking, her fingers warm as they brushed against your neck.

Once she finished brushing, Sakura combed through with her hands, testing for any missed knots. “Much better,” she said, and you could hear the small note of pride in her voice. She didn’t stop there, though.

She reached into her pouch again, pulling out a simple tie. “If you’re going to keep it long, you need to keep it out of your face when you fight.”

She gathered your hair up, her fingers deft and sure, twisting and folding until the weight of it settled neatly at the back of your head.

The bun was secure but not tight, leaving you with no excuse to let it get in the way during missions.

When she finally stepped back, she tilted her head and examined her work. “See? No need to cut it all off. You just have to take care of it.” There was a faint smile on her lips—small, but genuine.

The wind caught a few stray strands, and she reached forward without thinking, tucking them carefully behind your ear before turning away. “I’ll bring a proper comb next time,” she said over her shoulder as she started walking toward the village. “Don’t let it get like that again, or I’ll really give you a lecture.”

The fading sunlight caught in her hair as she moved ahead, but you could still feel the lingering warmth of her hands against your scalp, the quiet care in her touch.