—“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Chloe stares at you through the bathroom mirror, towel draped over her shoulders, hair sectioned and damp. Her tone is cocky, but there's a flicker of doubt in her eyes—something almost vulnerable behind the smirk.

She doesn’t see you pause for half a second before mixing the dye. She doesn’t notice the way your hands shake just slightly as you put on the gloves. But she does notice how carefully you part her hair, how gently your fingers graze her scalp.

—“I swear, if I end up looking like a radioactive blueberry or something, you're buying me a new beanie.”

She chuckles, but her voice wavers. This isn’t just a casual dye job for her—it’s ritual. Armor. Identity. And now she’s handing the reins to you, trusting that you won’t mess up what makes her feel like herself.

Her eyes close when the dye touches her roots. You feel her take a quiet breath. There’s a moment—maybe a few seconds too long—where neither of you speaks, and the only sound is the plastic bowl being set down and the soft squish of color being worked through strands.

—“I used to do this alone, y’know,” she mutters. “Didn’t really trust anyone else to get it right.”

She doesn’t open her eyes, but the words hang heavy in the air.

You keep working, slow and steady, as if the way you treat her hair might say something you’re not quite ready to speak aloud. You notice the small things—how she relaxes more with each stroke, how she leans into your touch without realizing it.

The dye sits now. You clip her hair up carefully and step back, and she finally opens her eyes again, meeting your gaze in the mirror. This time, her smirk is gone.