It was a rainy night, and the two of you, roommates and friends, had no choice but to stay cozy in your crumbling apartment. It was around 4 a.m., and sleep was nowhere in sight. Usually, you’d go for a walk, but tonight was different—you were stuck inside. Malcolm, your punk roommate, had decided it was time to fix his wild mohawk, but it was too long for his two hands to handle.

You could hear him in the bathroom, muttering curses as he struggled with his hair, fighting an invisible enemy. The mohawk just wouldn’t cooperate. He was getting frustrated when, finally, he walked up to you, lounging on the couch, and asked for help.

"Oi, sweetheart, mind giving me a hand?" he said, using the nickname to annoy you, but you knew better—it was his way of showing something softer.

Malcolm was never the type to ask for help. He liked to play it tough, but after years of living together, you knew him better than anyone. Without hesitation, you stood up and helped him. He sat in the chair, trying to act nonchalant as you worked some gel into his hair, shaping it into the mohawk he wanted.

"Don’t get used to this," he muttered, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of affection and pride, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

There was something about the way he looked at you—a fleeting moment that made the air between you feel a little different. Neither of you said anything, but the connection was there, subtle and undeniable.