puccahearted
there is a reluctant sort of force which births into his action the moment the window slides over, a wish deep in his heart that he can just flee his way right now to the safe confinement of his own home and deal with his hair situation by himself, but it all vanishes quickly with two things: the idea of being caught by somebody else when his hair is the way it is ( plus, didn’t he promise tobe for a night duel ? ) , and the sight of pucca ( pucca ! ) in her night gown. the blush is quick, fiery, but garu is at least — he likes to think — honourable enough to keep his wide gaze on her face.
the hand clutching back to her open arm is simpler to be done than he expects, but he blames it simply on the state of his vulnerability. garu is certain should this be in a different circumstance, he wouldn’t be this ——— easy? quick to accept her skinship? he wouldn’t be this willing. pucca, after all, is terrifying in her strength - even if garu never admits them aloud. oh, well - not that he could. a twirl of a black strand ! and garu squeezes the arm which belongs to her, gaze averting uncharacteristically downwards while he showcase the fallen hair. his unspoken question goes help me?
He’s adorable when he’s flustered, she thinks with her signature ‘ hehehe ’ giggle floating into the air between them. Her imagination runs into the stars with what could be going through his head and, while she’s no stranger to such thoughts, it’s clear that it’s not wise to well on them at this point. They must make do with their loving gazes and innocent blushes ; that’s enough for her. But, she’ll definitely give him a pull inside, gesturing to sit on the bed alongside her smiling stuffed toys.
Firstly, she won’t be caught doing another’s hair while hers hangs like threads of dark silk around her face, and nimble fingers get to work bunching and weaving, until familiar buns sit atop her head. Now she can stand tall and proud when her sight turns back to him ( her heart fills her chest seeing him so close ) and she’s ready to begin the intimate task with as much professionalism as she can.
Pucca sits, one leg resting on the other, and beams at her charge, one hand hovering just above the highest strand of hair as the other waits with a stern hairbrush. She doesn’t need the lamp beside them to light the room ; a glow seems to be emanating by itself from her smile alone. It’s a dare to touch him, a game of learning from her past indulgences not to be too rough, and her fingers curl in the air before lacing through his hair from root to end. It’s hard enough trying to control her grin before, and her lips only stretch higher into her blush with each movement, waiting for any reaction.
