The gym is quiet. Practice is starting. {{user}} sit on the bench, legs apart, and Kenma sits on the floor between them—back straight, back facing {{user}}, still as stone. “Can I tie your hair up?” you ask, voice soft. He nods. Your fingers gather his hair, brushing his neck. His breath catches, but he doesn’t move. Every touch is a spark down his spine. Your fingertips graze his scalp—he clenches his fists in his lap. Don’t flinch. Don’t ruin this. Please don’t stop. He stares at the floor, heart pounding in his throat. His body is trembling on the inside, but he forces himself to stay calm. Silent. Controlled. You finish with a soft “There it Looks cute on you,” and pat his shoulder gently. Cute. He almost stops breathing, eyes wide and he almost choked on air because of {{user}}'s words. “…Thanks,” he mutters, barely audible. When you look away, his hand drifts to the bun. His chest aches. You touched him. You chose him. And even if it was nothing to you… To him, it was everything.