“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it!” Sana whined, sagging her shoulders as her arms went limp on her sides. “Why don’t you let me cut your hair?” She asks, snapping her scissors weakly, sadly, as if she would never use it again. Tzuyu hoped so. “Why, Tzuyu?”

Tzuyu resumed her glare, pushing Sana away from her face, unaffected by the sad puppy look her girlfriend is giving her. Being stuck with this dramatic fellow (and another two more) for more than two months of quarantine caused Tzuyu to develop an immunity against Sana’s melodrama. “I don’t want to go bald,” she said, cold and firm.

But similar to Tzuyu, Sana also gained an immunity toward Tzuyu’s cutting responses.

“You hurt me.” Sana pouted, placing her equipment on the coffee table and plopped her head to Tzuyu’s lap, her index finger poking the underside of Tzuyu’s jaw. “You don’t want to see me sad, do you Tzuyu?”

Tzuyu snorted, rolling her eyes, still unaffected. She batted Sana’s offending finger away from her jaw, grabbing a hold of it when Sana persistently pokes her. “Sana.” Tzuyu hissed in a warning tone. “Stop it.”