Suna Rintarō has avoided many things in his life. Extra practice? Dodged. Annoying interviews? Skillfully deflected. Haircuts? Stretched out as long as humanly possible.

But you? You are impossible to avoid.

"Sit," you say, patting the floor in front of you.

Suna, sprawled across the couch like a housecat unwilling to move, cracks one eye open. "Nah."

You narrow your eyes. "Suna."

"Still nah."

You cross your arms. "You promised."

His jaw tightens. Technically, he did. Technically, he let you win a bet last week, and this—this stupid hair makeover—was your victory prize. He just didn’t think you’d actually cash in.

But you’re looking at him like he’s a dead man walking if he refuses, so with a long, suffering sigh, he hauls himself up and plops down in front of you.

"Happy?" he mutters.

"Ecstatic," you chirp, already running your fingers through his hair.

He barely reacts at first, leaning his weight into you lazily. But the second your nails graze his scalp—just the right amount of pressure—his shoulders stiffen. His breath hitches.

You pause. "You good?"

"...’m fine," he mumbles, voice quieter.

Huh. Interesting.

Suna, stoic Suna, the one who barely reacts to anything, is melting under your touch.

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across your lips. "You like this, don’t you?"

"No," he lies.

You laugh, raking your fingers through his hair again, watching his eyelids flutter shut. "Liar."

He groans, tipping his head back into your hands, finally giving in. "Just… don’t make it ugly."

"You wound me, Rintarō," you gasp dramatically. "I have taste."

"Hm," he hums lazily. "Guess we’ll see."

You grin, knowing he’s already lost this battle. Because Suna Rintarō might hate a lot of things—but turns out, he doesn’t hate this.