The quiet buzz of insects lingered in the stillness of the Aburame compound, a constant hum that seemed to blend into the background like the man it belonged to. Muta sat on the edge of the engawa, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly over the notes in his lap. The mission scrolls he'd been reviewing were half-unrolled, but his eyes hadn't moved across them in a while.

His hair—normally tucked, maintained, and discreetly kept—had begun to lose its shape. Strands had slipped free, some curling near his ears, others tangling in the nape of his neck. It was subtle, easy to miss for anyone who didn’t know him well. But the disarray was there.

You noticed it.

As you stepped closer, the light shift of weight on the wood made him glance up, just briefly. His goggles obscured his expression, but his posture stiffened as your fingers reached toward him.

The first touch was hesitant, gentle—threading softly through a few stubborn knots. He flinched almost imperceptibly, not from pain, but uncertainty. His shoulders rose just a fraction, his jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the scroll.

But you kept going. Patient. Careful.

Each pass of your fingers worked through the tangles, smoothing strands into some sense of order. Slowly, the tension in his frame began to drain. His breathing evened out. The scroll slipped closed in his lap, untouched. A small, near-silent sigh escaped him as he leaned—just barely—into the motion, the trust unspoken but offered.

And for a long moment, Muta simply sat there, letting you comb the quiet back into his world.