It was supposed to be a simple at-home hair dye session. You handed Yeosang the bottle, showed him the instructions, and told him to take it slow. Easy, right?

Wrong.

He was happily scrubbing the bright red dye into his hair, humming a little tune, when suddenly he slipped. The bottle tipped, splashing red dye not just on his head but everywhere — the bathroom counter, the floor, and worst of all, your favorite pillowcase.

You walked in just in time to see him wiping his hands on the duvet, leaving streaks of vivid crimson that looked like abstract art gone wildly off-script.

“Yeosang! The pillow!” you exclaimed, grabbing the fabric and inspecting the spreading stain.

He looked sheepish, cheeks flushed bright—maybe from the dye, maybe from embarrassment. “I thought I was being careful…”

You sighed, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed how ridiculous it all was. “Careful? You look like you wrestled a fire hydrant.”

He grinned. “At least my hair’s red enough to match my shame.”

And it wasn’t just the bedding. As you moved around to help clean, you noticed red dots on his shirt, the floor, and even smeared across the spine of your favorite book lying on the nightstand.

“Why is my book bleeding?” you asked, holding it up.

“Maybe it wanted to join the party,” Yeosang joked, nudging you gently.