The bathroom is thick with the scent of hairspray, Steve’s signature fog of war. You’d only come in to grab your toothbrush, but now you're in a cloud.

He’s standing in front of the mirror in his boxers and a too-old Family Video t-shirt, one hand holding the can like it’s a weapon, the other expertly fluffing his hair with a precision that suggests years of intense practice. His brow is furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly, eyes locked on the mirror like he’s defusing a bomb.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold. Steve doesn’t notice you at first. Too engrossed in sculpting what is, admittedly, a pretty phenomenal mane.

Then he catches your reflection in the mirror. He freezes, mid-fluff. There’s a beat of silence. The hairspray hisses one last puff into the air before he sheepishly sets it down on the counter. “Don’t act like it’s not impressive,” Steve says, smoothing a hand over his work like an artist finishing a masterpiece. His grin is cocky, but there’s a little blush creeping up his neck.