Aiacos leaned back into his chair, pretending to read the tome in his hands but really watching over Irene as she made his bed. He never really could take his eyes off of her when she was in his quarters, and he could never really understand why.

Maybe it was the way her blue eyes contrasted with her darker skin. Those eyes were set in concentration as they folded his sheets, and a small sheen of sweat began to form on the skin of her brow. He watched her wipe it clean with the back of her hand, then finishing his bed and putting her hand to her hair.

Her hair was a light green, and that certainly stood out against her other features. She normally kept it up in a ponytail, but now he watched her hands go to the violet-colored band that held her hair. She pulled it off and shook her head out.

His breath stopped for the briefest of moments as the hair tumbled down to her shoulders and framed her face. He put the book down on his table, standing up.

He heard her gasp as he stepped behind her with a speed only known to the Judges and gently touched her hair, letting it run in between his fingers slowly. He looked down at her shocked expression as she turned and looked up at him.

“You’re hair looks better down, you know.” He said. He turned and walked back to his seat, picking up the book and picking up where he left off as if he had never moved. He watched her flustered expression out of the corner of her eye until she gathered her supplies and left.

He closed the book, looking up at his ceiling. Yes, it was her hair that made her stand out, and it was in that moment, where he lost the smallest modicum of self-control, where he wondered how that hair would look sprawled out onto his sheets. One day, he thought, he’d like to find out.