Something flares in his eyes as Wei Ying shivers, but he does not alter the rhythm of his strokes or the gentle care in each languid, soothing pass of the comb through Wei Ying’s hair.

Only once every hint of a tangle is long-vanished and the dark strands lie silken and smooth under his touch does he set his comb aside and reach down for the bright red ribbon. Carefully, he gathers Wei Ying’s hair into its usual style and fastens it securely.

Then, unable to resist, he pulls the other man’s head back to lie against his own shoulder, arching his throat, and bends forward to place a possessive kiss where Wei Ying’s neck meets his shoulder.