Sunlight filtered through the paper screens, pale and golden. You stirred first, stretching, only to realize your hair had become a tangled disaster overnight. Hao, of course, looked flawless — brushing his long hair in slow, deliberate strokes near the mirror.

You groaned. "How do you do that every day?" He didn’t look up. "Centuries of practice."

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it midair, smirking faintly. "Jealousy doesn’t suit you."

Hao set the brush aside, crossed the room, and gently began untangling your hair with his fingers. His touch was soft, careful. "You used to do this for me," he murmured.