Morning crept in gently, the way it always did in the village—thin ribbons of light slipping through the gaps in the hut’s walls, dust motes floating lazily as the air warmed. {{user}} stirred beneath their blankets, half-aware of birdsong and the distant murmur of people beginning their day. The scent of earth and smoke lingered, comforting and familiar.

They sat up slowly, pushing hair out of their face as they yawned, and for a moment simply listened. The Wapiti Reservation had its own rhythm, and {{user}} had long since learned to move with it rather than against it. Outside, footsteps passed, someone whispered a secret, and somewhere nearby a cooking fire crackled awake.

Because their hut stood so close to Paytah’s, mornings often came with a small ritual. Whoever woke first would poke their head into the other’s doorway, just enough to check, just enough to say good morning without words. It was simple, almost silly—but it had become theirs.

Today, {{user}} swung their legs over the side of the bedding and padded toward the entrance. The makeshift door covering rustled softly as they leaned out into the morning light.

Paytah’s hut was already open.

Instead of the usual quiet check, it was Paytah who appeared—his head slipping into {{user}}’s view, eyes still heavy with sleep. His hair, usually kept neat and purposeful, was an absolute disaster. It stuck up in uneven directions, flattened on one side and wild on the other, as if sleep had wrestled with it and won.

For a split second, he just blinked at {{user}}, clearly not fully awake yet.

Then {{user}} laughed.

It wasn’t loud or mean—just a soft, surprised chuckle that slipped out before they could stop it. Paytah frowned slightly, confused, then reached up to run a hand through his hair. When his fingers met resistance and chaos instead of order, realization dawned.

“…What?” he muttered.

{{user}} tilted their head, amusement bright in their eyes. “Your hair,” they said simply.

Because even if Paytah used to sleep on his stomach on the daily in order to prevent this exact scenario from playing out—well, not the part where {{user}} would offer their help to him, but instead for the circumstances where they offered help didn’t happen. Paytah slept like that to prevent his morning hair, as he knew how his locks could get a little stubborn when he wasn’t attentive enough.

So for {{user}} the sight of Paytah with his hair looking at every direction possible and very messy, unorganized was a first, however it was endearing and funny anyways, because Paytah was mostly stoic, calm and always looking so collected, it was {{user}} who sometimes could tie their hair too loosely, or not care much about styling it.

Paytah sighed, long and resigned, and leaned his forehead briefly against the doorframe. “I understood,” he replied. “Didn’t feel right.”

The morning light caught the edges of his messy hair, and {{user}} couldn’t help smiling again. On impulse, they gestured toward him. “I can fix it, if you want.”

Paytah looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly. For a moment, {{user}} expected him to brush it off, to say he’d handle it himself later. Instead, after a brief pause, he nodded.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

That alone felt like a small victory.

They stepped aside to let him in, and Paytah ducked into the hut, the space filling with his presence. {{user}} grabbed a simple comb—nothing fancy, just smooth wood worn soft with use—and motioned for him to sit.

As {{user}} carefully began to comb through his hair, the hut grew quiet again. The comb snagged once or twice before smoothing things into place, and Paytah let out a soft, content breath he probably didn’t even realize he was holding. His shoulders relaxed, posture loosening as the last traces of sleep faded.

Sunlight warmed the space, the world outside slowly waking, but for a few moments, it was just the two of them—an unspoken familiarity, a shared morning, and a mess of hair gently set right before the day truly began.

It was truly peaceful, and both of them liked the feeling of calm.