The room was filled with soft light filtering through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the posters and neatly stacked books. Chigiri sat cross‑legged on the floor, his long crimson hair spilling like silk down his back. Normally, he guarded it fiercely—his hair was his pride, his armor, something no one was allowed to touch. But today was different.

You sat behind him, comb in hand, carefully parting strands, weaving them into a style you’d imagined. Each touch was slow, deliberate, respectful. He closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders melting as your fingers moved with care.

"I can’t believe I’m letting you do this," he murmured, voice soft, almost amused. "Usually, I’d never let anyone near my hair."

You smiled, leaning closer as you twisted another section.

"That’s because it’s special. And you know I’d never treat it carelessly."

He opened his eyes just enough to glance back at you, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Yeah… I know. That’s why it feels different with you. I actually… like it."

Your hand brushed gently against his temple, adjusting a strand.

"You look beautiful, Hyoma. But you always do."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head, though he didn’t move away.

"Beautiful, huh? You’re the only one who could say that and make me believe it."

When you finished, you tied the last strand into place, stepping back to admire your work. Chigiri turned, his hair flowing with the new style, his eyes catching yours with a mix of shyness and warmth.

"Guess I’ll have to let you do this more often," he said, smiling. "But only you."

The room was quiet, filled only with the closeness between you—the boy who never let anyone touch his hair, and the one person he trusted enough to change it.