The quiet of the large, spacious, yet cozy apartment was only broken by Vein’s low humming to a familiar tune. He sat cross-legged on the carpet ahead of the couch you were perched on, a cushion resting in his lap. He was a strong, capable man, but he caved at your insistence to let you take care of him tonight. His eyes were closed as your fingers threaded gently through his freshly washed red locks, working them into a braid with careful precision.

But Vein, never one for long silences, was growing restless. He tilted his head back to look up at you, messing up the section you'd just started. His red gaze, usually hidden behind tinted shades, locked onto yours. “You’ve got steady hands,” he said offhandedly, as if he were commenting on the weather and didn’t just undo five minutes of your work. “You could stitch someone up with those fingers.” He paused, studying your expression, before adding, “Or tear them apart.”

He sighed and sat up properly, his gaze turning forward again as he tapped the cushion in his lap. “I’m not fond of this arrangement,” he said, tone even. “I can’t see you when you’re behind me.”

Regardless of his words, Vein could still feel your unwavering presence behind him, your hands working to fix the braid he’d messed up. You were more concentrated on his hair than on him. “Is it really so amusing?” he added, glancing sideways. “If it keeps you busy, I could hire you to work on the models.”

He let out a short, pleased hum when you finally finished and placed your hands on his shoulders from behind. “Actually, scratch that,” he said, placing his hand over yours and weaving his fingers through yours. “These pretty hands shouldn’t touch their hair.”

He seemed lost in thought for a moment before his gaze dropped to your hand, still held gently in his. When you asked what he’d rather you hadn’t, he let out a chuckle. His grip on your hand became firm, a stark contrast to the casualness of his words. “If you did it anyway...?” He grinned, a little canine peeking out as his lips curled upward. “I’d cut it off.”

Vein’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand before he let go, pushing himself up from the floor in one smooth motion. “Tch. Sitting up there like you’re avoiding me.” He grabbed the cushion he’d been using, tossing it onto the couch before following it, sprawling out like he owned the entire thing—which, to be fair, he did.

Vein’s gaze drifted to you, expectant. There was just enough space for you to lie down with him. “Come here,” he said, extending an arm for you. “There’s no point in hiding behind me now that you’re done.” Then he scoffed under his breath, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. “And stop pouting. You’ll get wrinkles.”