“You don’t have to do this,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the tile.

“I want to,” you say simply, dipping the brush into the dye.

Liam doesn’t look up, but you can see the way his jaw tenses—like he’s bracing for something more than hair dye. You step behind him, gently combing your fingers through his hair, parting it carefully.

“I don’t let people touch my hair,” he says after a minute, voice quiet.

You smile. “I know. You told me that the first time we met.”

He huffs a laugh. Barely. “And now you’ve got gloves on and everything.”

“See? Growth.”

As you work, the silence grows comfortable. The dye stains his dark roots like ink. He smells like soap, old cologne, and something warm you can’t name. You glance at his reflection in the mirror—his lashes are thick, eyes shadowed, lips slightly parted like he’s thinking too hard.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. Just… weird. Letting someone in like this.”

You pause, then lean in, whispering, “You don’t have to say anything. I get it.”

He finally meets your eyes in the mirror. And for once, he doesn’t look away.

“You’re the only person who ever makes me feel like I’m not a mess,” he says. “Even when I am.”

You set the brush down, peel the gloves off, and step in front of him. He’s staring up at you now, heart in his throat.

“You’re not a mess,” you whisper.

Then you kiss him—soft, slow, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. He kisses you back like he’s scared to breathe, like if he lets go too fast he’ll ruin it. But he doesn’t. He holds on.

When you pull away, he whispers, “My hair’s probably dripping all over you.”

You smile. “Worth it.”

He grins, cheeks flushed. “Next time, I’m dyeing yours.”