Saul always had this effortlessly cool look — dark curls spilling past his shoulders, fingers always busy with a guitar riff, cigarette tucked behind his ear — but when he was with you, all of that edge softened. Especially when your hands were in his hair.

He sat cross-legged on the carpet, Les Paul balanced on his thigh as he absentmindedly tuned it. But the moment your fingers started gently combing through his curls, his shoulders eased, lips twitching into a quiet smile.

“You love my hair, huh?” he mumbled, a little amused, glancing up at you with those dark, sleepy eyes. His voice was low, scratchy from rehearsal, but warm. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna get anything done.”

You just hummed in reply, still playing with the soft strands.

Saul sighed, pretending to be exasperated, but he leaned into your touch anyway. “Seriously,” he chuckled, closing his eyes, “I’m gonna pass out right here if you don’t stop…”

But he didn’t move away.

Not even a little.