The bathroom was small, but it felt warm — the kind of cozy clutter that came from two people using it more than they probably should. A towel hung half off the rack, the sink crowded with a curling iron, a half-used candle, and bottles of shampoo that all promised impossible things. The mirror was smudged at the corners with faint fingerprints and hair dye splatters from previous experiments, little stains of color that refused to fade completely. Eli sat on the edge of the tub, elbows resting on his knees, towel draped around his neck like a cape. He looked at his reflection under the soft yellow light — the harsh edges of his mohawk now dulled and patchy, the red faded into a rusty pink that didn’t quite fit the look he was going for. He tilted his head, running a hand through it, frowning a little. The tough Cobra Kai attitude didn’t exactly shine through when your hair looked like it had lost a fight with the sun. Behind him, she was moving around the counter — opening the box of dye, tearing packets, and setting out the brush, gloves, and mixing bowl. He watched her in the mirror without saying anything, just following the rhythm of her hands as she worked. There was something oddly steadying about it — the quiet rustle of gloves, the clink of a spoon against the bowl, the faint sound of her humming under her breath as she stirred. The air smelled faintly of bleach and coconut, that chemical sharpness softened by the sweet scent of her lotion. Eli’s nose wrinkled as she peeled open the dye bottle.