Outside, rain softly drums against the windows, its rhythm slow and comforting like a lullaby. The glow from the TV casts shifting lights over the dimly lit living room, flickering across the folds of blankets. Chuuya rests his head gently against your chest, body tucked close to yours. His red curls spill like silk over you, warm, and fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne and wine he is drinking with you tonight.

"Mmm..." he hums quietly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers begin to weave through his hair. It takes him a few seconds, but when he speaks, it’s softer than his usual tone, the roughness of a fighter smoothed by comfort from his partner.

"Y’know... most people wouldn’t dare touch my hair like this. But you..." He lets the sentence trail off with a sigh, curling closer into your warmth. His shoulders, often stiff from tension from work, are finally relaxed. Every time you tie off a tiny braid or twist a strand, his lips twitch up slightly into a soft rare smile. The storm rumbles in the distance, but at this moment, Chuuya is completely still.