Itsumarin

really, you did!

but sylus had an insufferable knack for pissing you off.

"sy?" despite the calmness across your features, your eye twitching showed you were anything but. "where is he?"

if you weren't so focused on keeping your breathing regulated, you would've seen the reassured grin slipping onto his face, far too cocky as he casually fiddled with his gun.

"where is who, kitten?" his voice was a lazy drawl as he dragged his gaze up to meet yours. "you'll have to be more specific."

"you know!" when waving your hands in the air only earned you a raised brow, you groaned. "my grumpy crow plushie! he was on the bed when i left for work, and now he's gone!"

"ah." he brought his gaze back down to the gun he was maintaining, and you could see the way his lip curled. "that thing? perhaps he ran off to find his own kitten."

"sy!" you marched over, grabbing the gun from his hands. he seemed all too pleased as you placed it on the table. "i know you have something to do with this! spit it out!"

"i'm telling the truth, sweetie." he held his hands up, placing one over his heart. "the crow wished to find a companion, so he left."

"sylus qin." you poked at his chest, scowling. "if you don't tell me, i swear-"

"you're more worried about a plushie than your own husband." he lamented, a dramatic sigh escaping his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist, tugging you between his legs. "you haven't even asked how my day was."

".. how was your day, sylus?" your hands drifted to his hair reflexively.

"very productive." he nodded, resting his head against your stomach, nuzzling into you. "i made a few deals.. dealt with some troublemakers.. aided a crow to find a new home-"

and with those words, you tugged on his hair. he barely seemed fazed, only lifting his head at your pull to smile up at you.

"where. is. my. plushie?" you demanded an answer, scowling down at him.

"the closet." he decided to answer truthfully this time, if only to catch a glimpse of the sight of you running off to see if his claims were true.

"why did you put him in there?!" you hugged grumpy crow as soon as you found him, glaring daggers at his "kidnapper."

sylus merely shrugged, leaning his head against his palm. "he was stealing from me."

"stealing from- he's a plushie!" you moved to storm towards the bed, but a hand grabbing your wrist stopped you. you brought your gaze up, finding him watching you, a strange gleam to his eyes.

"he was stealing my wife's attention." he spoke as if it was a grievous sin, bringing you into his arms. a steady hand rested on your hip, the second sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "why would you cuddle with.. him if i'm only a call away?"

"when did i..?" you paused, before glaring at him. "are you seriously jealous that i was holding him before bed last night?"

"you should be holding me instead." he huffed, tugging you impossibly closer. "surely i'm better than cotton and cloth?"

"you're so dramatic." you grumbled, holding the plushie up. "he's just a plushie!"

"plushie or not, i'm not sharing our bed with him." he turned his head away, nose up in the air for dramatic effect. "who will you choose, sweetie, me or the plushie?"

His keys are still in his hand as he pushes the apartment door open and the faint sound of her pacing greets him before she does.

She’s standing in the middle of the bathroom doorway, scissors dangling from her fingers like a guilty weapon, hair on the floor in sad little clumps. One side is an inch shorter than the other. The back looks like it lost a fight with a weed whacker. There’s a crooked swoop over her left ear that makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time.

As she looks up, her eyes are already glassy.

And just like that, years collapse into one heartbeat.

He’s 17 again, sitting on the edge of the bathtub while she sobs into his shirt, clutching those same damn scissors, bangs hacked to uneven stubs because she “wanted to look cool like the girls on TV.” He’d spent an hour fixing it with gran’s good comb, whispering “it’s okay, I got you” until she stopped hiccuping.

Now she’s twenty-something and still running to him the second something goes wrong with her hair.

He drops the keys on the counter, crosses the room in three strides, and kneels in front of her without a word.

Her lip wobbles. “I messed up.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft, already reaching for the scissors. “I can see that.”

She sniffles. “I was trying to do that cute wolf cut thing from TikTok.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I can see that too.”

He turns her gently toward the mirror, standing behind her, hands settling on her shoulders. Their eyes meet in the reflection, she’s pouting, unshed tears glistening and he looks at her steadily and reassuringly.

“Same as always, huh?” he murmurs, brushing a choppy strand behind her ear. “You freak out, you call me, I fix it.”

She nods, small and sheepish. “You’re the only one who’s ever been able to.”

He smiles. It’s slow, fond, the same smile he gave her when they were kids and the world felt too big.

“Sit,” he says, nudging her onto the closed toilet lid.

She obeys. He grabs the good scissors from the drawer (the ones he keeps sharpened just in case), combs his fingers through what’s left of her hair, and gets to work. He snips slowly, carefully, evening out the disaster with the patience of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

Every few cuts he pauses to kiss the crown of her head.

“Still cute,” he mutters after fixing the swoop. “Even when you butcher it.”

She snorts, a wet little laugh. “Liar.”

“Not lying.” Another kiss. “You could shave it all off and I’d still think you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And in all his learned skills as her personal hair stylist over the years, he’s finished in 10 minutes. Soft layers, a little messy in that intentional way, framing her face perfectly. He steps back, tilts her chin up, studies his work.

“There,” he says quietly. “All better.”

She turns to the mirror. Blinks. Touches the ends like she can’t believe it.

Then she spins around and buries her face in his chest, arms tight around his waist.

“Thank you,” she mumbles into his shirt.

He wraps her up, chin resting on her head, breathing her in.

“Anytime, trouble,” he whispers, kissing her hair. “You know I’ve got you.”