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At Sakura’s side is a thick tress of white-blonde hair. Ino tied the mane in two low-hanging ponytails before bed, an effort to keep it at bay, and now one of the ponytails is loose and the hair tie is on the floor. The ponytail is fluid between her fingers, almost tickling, and she shivers when the long strands tingle the skin of her forearm and wrist.
This has become a common occurrence before bed, one that serves both of them well. Sakura has always been mesmerized by Ino’s hair. She’s never said it out loud--partly due to the mortification she’ll feel immediately after but mostly due to Ino’s lifelong teasing--but the color reminds her of sweet, cool lemonade on a summer day. It doesn’t really make sense in Sakura’s own mind, and Sakura is keenly aware that she lacks the eloquence needed to make her sappy thoughts understandable. So in the vault it stays.
Ino just enjoys the gentle sensation of her lover slash wife slash favorite person slash rival’s fingernails scraping her scalp, fingers unraveling particularly stubborn and hidden tangles. It’s a time where Sakura doesn’t have to fight, yell or cry. It’s a simple time that Ino cherishes. It isn’t to say that seeing her pink-haired rival in her prime doesn’t remind her of why she admires her so wholly and deeply, but Sakura and soft are rarely used together. So she values this.
They value this.