For your whole life you had taken care of your hair very well, not until you joined the military, where it was required to be tied. You always had them tied in a slick bun, immobilized by layers of gel. No one ever questioned, well, who would actually care about hair?

As winter came, and the first heavy snow flakes landed on the base, everyone was busy scooping out the excess around the compound, the 141 included.

It was too cold that day and you had the idea to finally let your hair down from all the ties and products, leaving them cascading over your form gracefully, in all its beauty and silkiness. As you approached your working team, all their attentions were directed to you, wrapped warmly in your winter uniform and a scarf — but more importantly, to your loose hair.

Simon, the usual cold man he was, was unexpectedly mesmerized by the sight, his hazel eyes glued on you. You took your place next to him, grabbing the shovel from his hands and getting to work. He just stood there, watching you, before instinctively twirling a strand of your hair around his finger.