The soft hum of the morning sunlight filled the room, spilling across the floor and catching on the stray strands of hair that had fallen around Asahi’s shoulders.

He sat on the edge of the chair, a little stiffly at first, like he wasn’t quite sure how to relax, but his hands rested loosely in his lap as you approached with the brush.

His usually quiet gaze followed your movements, a mix of trust and subtle nervousness in the way he blinked slowly at you.

You held the comb delicately, the bristles gliding over his dark, slightly wavy hair. Every stroke was gentle, careful, and measured, as if you were tracing a path rather than just untangling strands.

Asahi let out a soft, contented sigh, his shoulders loosening slightly with each pass.

Occasionally, you noticed him leaning just a little into your hand, tilting his head subtly to give you better access, the trust in that small gesture making your chest tighten warmly.

When you started working through the tangles, he let his eyes drift shut for a moment, a quiet acceptance in the way he surrendered to the process.

The hair at the back of his neck caught slightly under the brush, and he flinched just a fraction, murmuring a soft, “Ah…” that made you slow your movements immediately.

You gave him an apologetic smile and continued with extra care, combing slowly until every knot had disappeared.

Once the brushing was done, you moved on to putting up his hair the way he liked it, section by section.

His long bangs fell into his eyes as you worked, and he instinctively brushed them aside, only to let you reposition them gently.

Asahi’s lips parted slightly in concentration, as if he were studying your hands, marveling at the ease and patience with which you handled his hair.

Occasionally, a small smile would flicker across his face, subtle but genuine, whenever a stray lock finally settled perfectly.

When you tied the sections back, securing the hair just so, Asahi shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to disturb your work.

There was a quiet intimacy in the way he sat, patient and still, letting you tend to him in a way that was usually private.

You could feel the warmth of his shoulders beneath your hands as you smoothed down the final stray strands, and he exhaled slowly, a soft, almost imperceptible hum of contentment escaping his lips.

By the time you were finished, his hair looked exactly as he liked it—neat but soft, the strands framing his face just right.

He ran a hand through it experimentally, and then glanced at you with a quiet, shy gratitude in his eyes. He didn’t need words; the way he lingered, just a little closer, the subtle tilt of his head, said everything.

For a moment, you both just sat there, a comfortable silence stretching between you.

The simple act of brushing and styling his hair had become something more than routine—an unspoken connection, a gentle sharing of trust and care.

And in that soft, golden light of the room, Asahi’s usual quiet presence felt somehow more open, more tender, as if he had given you a small, personal piece of himself without ever having to speak it aloud.