She insisted on doing your hair.

‧ ̊꒰💕୭ ̊. ᵎᵎ

For once, the Castle‐Ship felt calm.

No alarms. No missions. No Galra fleets lurking on the scanners. Just a rare, fragile pocket of peace that everyone seemed determined to enjoy in their own way. Lance had declared it a “mandatory chill day”—and, shockingly, no one argued. Even Shiro admitted it wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had.

The paladins drifted off to their personal corners of the ship: Hunk to the kitchen, Pidge to her tech nest, Keith to whatever brooding activity he called “training.” The halls grew quiet, warm in a way they rarely were.

You and Allura ended up in the lounge, bathed in soft Altean light. She sat behind you on one of the curved couches, humming a tune under her breath—something old, something unmistakably Altean. Her fingers moved gently through your hair, careful and curious, like she was handling something precious.

It wasn’t often you let anyone touch your hair. You didn’t even know why—maybe instinct, maybe habit, maybe the simple vulnerability of it. But Allura had asked with that soft, hopeful smile, and somehow you’d found yourself nodding.

Her touch was warm. Delicate. Almost reverent.

“You know,” she murmured, amusement threading through her voice, “for someone who claims they don’t take care of their hair... it’s surprisingly fluffy.”

You could hear the smile in her words before you saw it. When you glanced back, she had that gentle, motherly expression she wore so naturally—an aura of warmth and quiet authority. But beneath it, there was something else too: curiosity. The kind she tried to hide but never fully could.

Her fingers combed through another section, fluffing it lightly. “It’s lovely,” she added, softer this time. “It suits you.”

The hum of the castle, the distant sounds of your friends relaxing, the warmth of her hands—it all blended into a moment so peaceful it felt almost unreal. A small, quiet slice of life in the middle of a war-torn universe.

And for once, you let yourself sink into it.