You became Kid’s partner during your second year at the DWMA. You weren’t symmetrical, nor particularly orderly, but you were patient—which, in his mind, was close to perfect. Over time, the partnership evolved into late-night library stakeouts, missions that left you winded and smiling, and a quiet routine where your chaos fit neatly next to his order. Somewhere between mission reports and shared silence, you became his favorite imperfection.

But the white stripes on the left side of his head never stopped bothering him.

He rarely spoke about it, but you noticed how his fingers twitched when he saw his reflection. How he tilted his head just slightly when he stood still, as if trying to make himself feel centered. Every time someone’s eyes lingered too long, his hands would twitch toward his temples like he could scrub the imperfection away.

So you dyed your hair.

Three neat white lines across the opposite side of your head—mirrored. Perfect. And when he saw you for the first time after, he stood frozen in the hallway. For a full minute, he said nothing.

You tilted your head toward his. “See?” You didn’t even have to speak. “It’s symmetrical if we stand together.”

Kid went still—then let out a slow breath. “…Perfect.” He said, so softly it didn’t even sound like him.