His hair could use it: he has been somewhat lackadaisical in its care, though not outright neglectful. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, tips his head back as the comb moves downward, hums low and pleased; he folds his hands in his lap and absently runs his thumb over the Gusu Lan emblem at his wrist.

Already he can feel his mind drawing to stillness again. How can this be all it takes, to find a relative measure of peace? He should never have joked about it last night.