The mask workshop is quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears. Uta sits hunched over his workbench, hands steady as he shapes something unrecognizable into something deliberate. Light spills over his tattoos, over the scattered tools, over the half-finished masks staring back like silent observers.

You’re behind him.

At first, it’s nothing—just curiosity. Your fingers hover near his hair, dark and messy like ink spilled and never cleaned up. You expect him to tease you. To shift away. To make it weird, like he always does.

But he doesn’t move.

So you touch him.

Slowly, your fingers sink into his hair, careful at first, then a little bolder. You expect tension. A joke. Anything.

Instead… he just pauses.

The tool in his hand stops mid-motion. Not dropped. Not startled. Just still. Like the world didn’t interrupt him—like he allowed you to.

“…That’s new.” He says softly, almost amused, but not pulling away.