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The TV played quietly in the background—some documentary Tsubaki picked without asking, something about rare flowers or ancient luxury perfumes. It didn’t really matter. Sakura wasn’t watching.
He sat on one side of the couch, legs tucked close to himself, arms folded tightly as if they were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Tsubaki sat just a bit closer than necessary, stretched out comfortably with his heels kicked off, one leg crossed over the other.
It was the kind of silence Sakura didn’t know he could live inside.
Eventually, Tsubaki shifted. His fingers, light and deliberate, slid toward Sakura’s hair.
“...What are you doing?” Sakura asked, not quite pulling away—but stiff.
Tsubaki blinked innocently. “You had a cowlick. I’m doing you a favor.”
Sakura narrowed his eyes. “You’re literally stroking my hair.”
“Correction,” Tsubaki said, lips twitching, “I’m soothing your frazzled aura.”
He kept his fingers there, gently combing them through Sakura’s dark strands. Slow, unhurried. His nails occasionally grazed Sakura’s scalp—light, delicate. It shouldn’t have felt good. But it did. It really did.
“…You can stop now,” Sakura muttered, not moving.
“I could,” Tsubaki agreed, “but I won’t.”
Sakura didn’t have the energy to fight. Not after everything. Not after the group chat humiliation. Not after the dinner. And not with Tsubaki’s hands being… whatever kind of magic they were.
He sighed, finally letting his head tilt slightly toward him. Just a little.
Just enough.
Tsubaki smiled softly to himself and continued, quieter this time. His voice lowered like he didn’t want to break the moment. “You know, you’re a lot softer than you pretend to be.”
“I’m not,” Sakura mumbled into the couch cushion.
“Sure, sure,” Tsubaki said airily. “You’re a lone wolf. A cold-blooded badass. Who just happens to melt every time I touch his hair.”
Sakura groaned and buried his face in his arm. “I hate you.”
Tsubaki leaned in close, lips near his ear. “You say that, but you haven’t moved once.”
Sakura didn’t reply.
Because he really didn’t want to move.
Not when, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could finally exhale.
The longer Tsubaki’s fingers ran through his hair, the heavier Sakura’s eyes became.
The strokes were slow, rhythmic. Each pass smoothed down the tension wound tight behind his temples. Tsubaki didn’t talk anymore. He didn’t need to. He just sat close, one leg folded under himself, the other brushing gently against Sakura’s.
Outside, the city murmured faintly. But in here, it was quiet. Still.
Safe.
Sakura blinked, slower and slower, until the TV faded into a blur of color and soft narration. He wasn’t sure when he stopped trying to hold himself upright. His shoulder rested against Tsubaki’s thigh now, the warmth there grounding. His cheek pressed into the curve of the couch cushion. Tsubaki’s hand was still in his hair, fingertips brushing behind his ear once, then twice—
And then Sakura stopped hearing anything at all.
His breathing evened out.
His arms loosened around himself.
He didn’t even notice when Tsubaki paused, glanced down, and smiled in that rare way he saved only for moments like this—unguarded and a little in awe.
“…Sleep well, Sakura,” he whispered, barely a breath.
And with the utmost care, he kept running his fingers through that messy, soft hair.
Just in case it helped him stay asleep a little longer.
Next day;
Sakura stirred with a frown, eyelids fluttering open against the thin morning light filtering through the curtains. His neck ached a little, his limbs were heavy, and—
Wait.
Why was he still on the couch?
He sat up abruptly, hair rumpled, sweater twisted half-off one shoulder. A blanket had been draped over him at some point during the night. It smelled faintly of lavender and something floral and expensive.
And sitting across from him at the dining table, with a steaming cup of tea in hand and legs crossed in a very deliberately elegant way, was Tsubaki.
Wearing a new outfit, of course.
Flowy cream blouse tucked into a soft plaid skirt, a delicate choker at his neck, and those sheer tights again — as if he hadn’t spent last night whispering comfort into Sakura’s hair while letting him fall asleep against his leg.
Tsubaki didn’t even look up from his tea.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said airily, flipping a page of the magazine in front of him.
Sakura blinked. “What… time is it?”
“Nearly ten. You looked too peaceful to wake up.” He finally glanced over, eyes twinkling. “You drooled a little.”
“I did not.”
“Only a bit,” Tsubaki teased. “Right here—” He gestured vaguely to his own thigh, smile growing smug. “It was very flattering.”
Sakura’s entire face ignited in heat. “You’re making that up.”
“Maybe,” Tsubaki said with a shrug. “But you’ll never know.”
Sakura groaned and dragged the blanket back over his face. “I hate you.”
A quiet pause.
Then the gentle clink of Tsubaki setting his teacup down, the soft rustle of his skirt as he crossed the space between them. Sakura peeked out just in time to see him kneel next to the couch, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting in his palm.
“You know…” Tsubaki said, quieter now, “for someone who insists he doesn’t like attention, you sleep very well when someone’s playing with your hair.”
Sakura didn’t respond. Not really. He just muttered something incoherent and very flustered into the blanket and refused to meet his eyes.
Tsubaki grinned, brushing a finger down the tip of his nose.
“…You’re cute like this.”
Sakura nearly fell off the couch.