She was slumped on the edge of the sofa, shoulders tight, eyes staring somewhere between the ceiling and nowhere at all. He hadn’t expected this—the vulnerability, the quiet defeat—but there she was.

“You look like hell,” he muttered, plopping down beside her. He didn’t wait for an argument. She just… let him sit.

Her hair had gotten messy again, strands sticking out at odd angles, tangled from the wind, from careless fingers. Without thinking, he reached for it. She flinched slightly, almost instinctively, but then relaxed as his fingers threaded gently through the knots.

“Don’t move,” he said, the words rough but gentle.

Her eyes softened, watching him, a flicker of disbelief in the green depths he had always thought were too sharp for warmth. “You’re… doing this?”

He shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal, though his hands lingered, untangling each stubborn knot with careful patience. “Someone has to,” he said. “And apparently, it’s me.”

Her lips twitched, a tiny, unconvincing smile. He ignored it and continued, brushing her hair down her shoulders, smoothing the chaos she always carried with her like armor.

“You’ve… changed,” she murmured, voice small.

He smirked without looking up. “Or maybe you’re just noticing the part of me that doesn’t hate you for five minutes straight.”

For the first time in a long while, her defenses slipped. She leaned back into him, letting him finish, letting someone else hold the quiet for her. There was a tension there, yes—years of rivalry and barbed words—but now it softened, replaced by a strange, delicate trust.

“Thanks,” she whispered, finally, her tone so faint he almost missed it.

He just grunted, tugging a comb through the last stubborn strands. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, but inside, a part of him was surprised at how much he liked this—how much he liked taking care of her, even if only for a moment.

She let him brush her hair until it fell smooth and neat, the ordinary intimacy of it grounding them both, the enmity between them paused, suspended in the soft rhythm of his hands through her hair.

For a while, the world outside the door didn’t exist.