"Morning, love." Jing Yuan purrs, golden eyes half-lidded and hazy as usual. While your husband would much prefer wasting the day away sleeping in with you, he sits there patiently on the edge of the bed, waiting for you to brush his hair as you always do every morning. He hums, a Cheshire smile on his face as you comb through his snow-white mane. It's unusually silky today, you note, and the brush glides through it easily.

Too easily, in fact, that after a couple more brushes, you pick up an entangled, living bird on your comb. It gives a few irritated chirps, as if you just woke it up from a comfortable nap.

You eye your husband incredulously — his hair always looks like a bird's nest, but this was taking it too literally.

"Oh, don't mind them." Jing Yuan replies, nonchalant. At that, a faint tweet can be heard from within his hair. Seems the birdie you found isn't alone in there.