Sorry for not updating Escape, but the creativity was flowing for this one, so I thought that I might as well follow it through since it's so short. I'm not too sure what an appropriate rating for this would be, so I'll leave it as T just to be safe, unless someone says it's okay to drop it lower. I also apologize for the crappy summary, but I was in a hurry to get this posted and nothing else came to mind. If anyone is willing to suggest a better one, I might adopt it. More ramblings at the bottom for those who want to read them. Hope you enjoy!

Blue eyes stared musingly back into her own as she stared at her pallid reflection. The figure trapped in the mirror's frame was dressed for the night, a thick robe wrapped snugly around a long nightgown to block the oncoming cool of autumn.

She felt the tingle of phantom fingers sliding through her hair. She shivered at the sensation, and broke her gaze from the mirror to look at her surroundings in a daze.

The brush lay silently on the surface of the dresser. Her hands were folded motionlessly in her lap. No one else was in the room.

Even when sitting, the ends of her hair brushed the ends of the cushioned seat. It was heavy and fell like a rumpled curtain, still wavy from being constrained up in a bun for the better part of a day. It was a hassle to corral it into a passable style, and took a good deal of time to lather it all to keep it clean and healthy. Not to mention the tangles she used to wake up to in the morning. The only way to avoid the sharp pains was to religiously comb it through and braid it before retiring to bed.

It was a ritual he had adored.

It was a while until he finally gathered enough courage to take up her brush and do it himself. The first time he had done so, he was shy and tentative, ready to be rejected. It was quite the opposite from his usual daring cheek. She was piqued by his fixation. She hadn't minded, but she never really knew how attached she had grown to this little display of intimacy until she found herself alone, the brush resting silent and solidly in front of her.

Hesitantly, her fingers reached up to curl through her locks. Her other hand raised up, and together they gathered up the inky mass and pulled it to rest over her right shoulder. Fingers fumbling over the counter, she picked up the brush and began to slowly drag it through her heavy tresses.

Each night she had to perform the familiar ritual herself was another reminder, no matter how subtle, that he was no longer here.

He was something solid, a steadfast constant that signaled the end of a day and the gentle transition to night and sleep. The chance to relax and unwind from the stresses of the day was in his voice, gentle strokes of a brush, and dexterous fingers nimbly braiding.

She could trace his emotions through his movements. If he was impatient to clear out the knots, something was frustrating him. The languid motions from root to tip spoke of calmness and inner peace. If he was in a playful mood, he would run both fingers and brush through her hair before beginning to braid.

The first time she had found him in her bedroom, she had attempted to kill him. It had taken two mutual friends to save him from her clutches, and another to quickly pacify her raging temper. And another to tend to his bruises.

When everything boiled over and the story explained, awkward silence pervaded on both sides, until she gritted her teeth and apologized. He bore the lingering bruises with good humor and accepted her apology with a gentleman's grace, but his eyes as she walked away had a curious glint to them.

Then one night, he showed up again. The shock she had received when the light fell across his distinctive features nearly made her drop the lamp. She had graciously given him a chance to explain himself in avoidance of the embarrassment of the last incident. He had put his hands up in a mollifying gesture with a crinkly-eyed smile that softened her killer expression somewhat.

Until she learned that he had just wanted to see how she would react. Incredulously, she had asked him if he was drunk. When his best defense was to laugh and scratch the back of his neck unrepentantly, she had told him to get out.

Sheepishly, he obliged. A week and a half later, he had gathered enough courage to show up again, and this time, with chocolates to share. One of her friends had spilled, and she wanted nothing more than to strangle whichever one it was.

His visits came more frequently, although always after she was ready for bed. It was during this time that she unwound from the stresses of the day and was the most relaxed. Another slip from her friends, she had thought with frustration. But with unnerving quickness, her routine adjusted for his presence, and he was more or less welcomed when he slipped into her quarters undetected. She never found out just how he had managed, but then she assumed it was his skill as a warrior. The fact that he used his talents for such nefarious purposes was a mark against him. His cheeky defense delivered with quirked brows that hers was the only room he wanted to sneak into didn't win him back any points.

They usually talked. Before his nightly visits, she had always reflected on whatever came to mind, deep or foolish. Around him it wasn't hard to give her thoughts voice. And the smooth strokes of the bristles through her hair seemed to loosen her tongue.

As the weeks dragged on, he stayed later and later, courting the threat of everything short of death that she threw at him. His touches became more lingering, his parting more reluctant as she had to increase the force with which she dismissed him. It wasn't too long ago when he started adamantly refusing to leave without a kiss goodnight. He never crossed the invisible line she had insisted on preserving, but he did cut it perilously close. The familiarity and proximity when he coaxed her to lean against him. The slight shivers that travelled down her spine when he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply. The impish taunt that one of these days, he'd follow her to bed.

Had he walked in this very minute, she would have let him. But she'd beat a proposal out of him shortly afterwards. This ridiculous dancing around each other needed to stop. If he continued his teasing, the time would come where she would cease to be the responsible one.

To find herself alone, again, for nearing a month now was eating at her from the inside. To alleviate the pain, she would always conjure the image of him that she saw most often.

His fingers, rough and calloused from the sword, were nimble and competent when sliding through her hair. His violet eyes were hard to discern in the moonlight, except when they were muted amber, reflecting the lamplight. His hair was a deep vibrant red that appeared auburn in the dim lighting of her room. And oddly enough, long enough to reach between his shoulder blades, even when tied up high. With hair like that, he probably had to put some effort into keeping it tangle-free. It explained the slight vain streak she had detected in him.

She blinked. Now that she thought about it, he did sometimes get a wistful expression when holding the brush. Maybe he wanted someone to play with his hair? Maybe he would like it if she returned the favor. She would love to get that color between her fingers.

That decided it. She'd brush his hair out for him when he came back, and put just as much tender care and soothing calm as he did when he worshipped her dark locks. She would show him just how much she appreciated and missed their nightly ritual.

She patted her plait into place and walked to her bed, flipping the coverlet over and sliding into the sheets. She blew out the lamp on the bedside table and snuggled into her pillow, scowling slightly.

After she beat him silly for making her wait.

This drabble popped up one night before bed, and it stuck with me until I wrote down a few lines. It kind of took off from there.

I was aiming for poignancy, but it makes Kaoru seem overly melancholy and mopey. While I can appreciate the sentiment every once in a while, writing this made me depressed, which is never good on a weekend night. I lightened it with some humor; the original was just so moody, but I'm not sure how well it worked. I'm not too fond of it, but it's written so I might as well throw it out there in case someone else likes it.

Comments are appreciated, but please don't be too harsh.

Jasmine blossom625