You never thought you could get this close to somebody who was so closed off. You thought it shouldn't have even been possible, but now you're laying with your head in his lap as he strokes your hair. His bloodshot eyes study his own hands as he's unsure of whether he's being gentle enough.

The calloused and rough hands that feel over your scalp are warm and hard, as if touching a stone that's been left out in the sun during the summer months.

The Marechi-blooded Man speaks up, his tone still assertive as ever. “Am I doing this right?”

It's rare to hear him try to accommodate somebody else.