(Goro style is recomended)

Muichiro sat cross-legged on his futon, the soft light of the evening filtering through the paper shoji doors. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside and the gentle hum that escaped his lips. His long, mist-colored hair, still damp from a recent wash, cascaded around him like an ethereal veil, and he remained still, his usual aloofness softened by the delicate attention being given to him.

As you carefully gathered his strands, your fingers deftly weaving through the silken locks, Muichiro’s gaze drifted out the window, his eyes unfocused as though lost in a distant thought. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an almost unspoken tension in the way he held himself—a balance of serenity and alertness, as if he were always ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

A soft hum, almost imperceptible, escaped him—a quiet expression of comfort and contentment. The gentle motion of your hands through his hair seemed to ease the edge off his usual stoicism. His faint smile, barely noticeable but genuine, tugged at the corners of his lips. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Mist Hashira, a moment where he allowed himself to simply be—no battles, no responsibilities—just the simple act of being cared for in such a quiet, intimate way.

His eyes flickered briefly toward you, the faintest trace of gratitude in his expression, before his gaze returned to the window, and his lips parted again in a barely audible

"Hm..." The sound was soft, almost like a sigh, but there was something reassuring about it—an acknowledgment of the moment, a sign of peace amidst the storms of his past and the weight of his duties.