The wind had been fierce all afternoon, tugging at your clothes and whipping your hair in every direction. You were tired, but it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that had you sighing. It was the sight of Muichiro, sitting on the porch with a brush in hand, his long, dark hair a tangled mess from the wind.

He was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to work through the knots, pulling the brush through with a frown that only deepened with each failed attempt.