The room was quiet except for the soft scratching of the comb through your hair, followed by an annoyed groan. You sat cross-legged on your futon, tugging at the stubborn strands.

“My hair’s frizzy again. Ugh, it looks awful,” you muttered, glaring at your reflection in the tiny mirror propped against the wall.

From where he leaned against the doorframe, Hakuji tilted his head, confused. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, tattoos curling across the skin — the marks of his past, the ones he always tried to keep hidden but never quite could. They made him shift uncomfortably under your gaze, though you never seemed to care.

“…You’re not even going anywhere,” he said finally, voice low, half-amused and half-puzzled. “Why does it matter?”

You whipped around, pouting in exaggerated offense. “Because it does! You don’t understand.”

His blue eyes softened, but his expression stayed guarded. He never really knew what to do when you had outbursts like this. You were spoiled, reckless, quick to snap — and yet, he’d already learned that you burned through moods as fast as lightning storms. He was used to it now, though the contrast to his own calm, quiet nature left him constantly at a loss for words.

Hakuji shifted his weight, staring at you like he was calculating something important, though it was really just the question of whether he should try to help or leave you to sulk. His bandaged knuckles twitched slightly — a man who could drop another fighter in seconds, utterly undone by a girl complaining about her hair.

“…Want me to… try?” he asked awkwardly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a hesitant smile. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Don’t laugh if I mess it up. I’ve never… done this kind of thing before.”

The tattoos on his forearms flexed with the motion, and he quickly tried to tuck his arms back, like he could make them disappear. Even now, he couldn’t shake the thought that you might see him differently if you stared too long. But you never looked at him with the same judgment the rest of the world did.

That thought alone kept him rooted in place, frowning softly in concentration as he stepped closer — a fighter, a criminal, a boy who didn’t know what to do with beauty or with you.