The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft golden haze of late afternoon sun bleeding through the curtains. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, a leftover comfort from earlier that morning. Aoba sat on the floor near the couch, scrolling halfheartedly through his Coil, strands of his long blue hair spilling over his shoulders like silk. He hadn’t noticed how close you’d moved behind him until you were reaching over the back of the couch, absently brushing some of that wild hair away from his neck.

He flinched, barely. A sharp little breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t say anything.

You paused. Did you pull too hard?

You tugged again, lightly this time, fingers threading through the thick locks, brushing against the sensitive nape of his neck.

That’s when you heard it. The softest, almost inaudible sound: a whimper. His hand twitched where it held his Coil. He tilted his head away slightly, as if trying to hide the flush that was now rising quickly to his cheeks.

“…Aoba?”

He stiffened a bit. “N-nothing, {{user}}-san. It’s nothing, just… mm… your hands are cold.”

Liar.

You leaned closer, testing a theory you hadn’t even known you were forming until now. You let your fingers slide slowly through his hair again, this time deliberately tangling in the silky strands. Then, gently, firmly, you gave a little tug.

Aoba gasped. His whole body gave a slight, unmistakable shiver.

You could feel it then: the truth, humming under his skin like static. The way his breath caught and he leaned forward just a bit too much, almost instinctively submitting to the motion. He bit his bottom lip, hands curling into the hem of his shorts. He looked down, avoiding your gaze entirely now.

“…Is it sensitive?" you asked softly, almost teasing. You already knew the answer.

Aoba didn’t speak at first. Then—

“…My hair has… nerves,” he said, voice quiet, like he was admitting something shameful. “It’s not, it’s not a big deal.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth. He wanted you to keep going. You could see it in how he hadn’t pulled away. How his thighs shifted restlessly, a tension starting to pool in his body. How he practically melted when your fingers brushed his scalp again.

You let out a low chuckle, leaning in closer, letting your breath ghost across his ear. “So if I pulled just a little harder… would you moan for me?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t say no, either.

And the way his back arched just slightly when you tugged again?

Yeah. You had him.