The room was quiet except for the slow whir of the desk fan and the occasional creak from the old wooden floorboards. Afternoon light bled in through the blinds in pale, uneven stripes, painting the couch in bands of gold and shadow.

1x1x1x1 sat stiffly, cross-legged, their back straight as if bracing against an unseen wind. Their hair fell in loose waves down their back — waves that {{user}} had claimed as their current project. Fingers sifted through the strands, pausing every so often when they caught on a knot.

A sharp tug. 
1x1x1x1 winced. “Ow.”

{{user}} hummed low in their throat, not quite an apology, and kept going. The rhythm settled in: part, untangle, smooth, repeat. Each time a knot gave way, the tension in 1x1x1x1’s scalp eased, only to spike again with the next pull.

The fan ticked as it turned, sending a faint breeze over them. A strand of hair lifted and brushed against 1x1x1x1’s cheek; they blew it away impatiently. Their eyes darted toward the clock, then away again.

Another knot surrendered. {{user}}’s hands were warm, deliberate, steady in their work. 1x1x1x1’s shoulders loosened a fraction before they noticed, before they could stop it. They exhaled quietly, almost inaudibly, and stared at the thin slats of light on the wall.

Time dragged and blurred. The only sounds were the fan, the soft rustle of hair, and the occasional sharp click of fingernails against a stubborn tangle. Somewhere in the rhythm, the discomfort dulled into something tolerable, almost meditative.

Still, when {{user}} shifted to gather another section, 1x1x1x1 muttered under their breath, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

{{user}}’s only reply was the quiet scrape of fingers through another lock of hair.