The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. Anthony paused, nose twitching.

Hair dye.

Again.

He dropped his bag by the coat rack, already toeing off his shoes. The smell was stronger than last time—chemical, sharp, mixed with the faintest trace of your vanilla body wash. He followed it like instinct down the hall, past the soft hum of the TV, until the bathroom light spilled into the hallway like a neon warning sign.

{{user}} was hunched over the sink, gloves on, hair parted unevenly, color bleeding into the porcelain like an abstract painting. This time? Bright red. Not burgundy. Not auburn. Fire-truck, heartbreak-red.

“Babe…” he leaned in the doorway, voice caught between concern and amusement. “Didn’t we just say ‘no more hair dye this month’?”

They glanced over their shoulder, half their face in the mirror, a streak of dye smudged across their cheek like war paint. “This is therapeutic,” They said simply, brushing more color into their roots.

Anthony crossed his arms, watching them with a slow shake of his head. “Therapy doesn’t usually stain all the towels.”

{{user}} didn’t look at him, just focused on a stubborn section near their temple. “It’s either this or pick a fight with my reflection.”

“Can’t have that,” he murmured, stepping closer, taking in the mess: gloves, crumpled instructions, splattered dye, and the all-too-familiar look on their face—the kind that came with needing control when everything else felt like chaos.

He knelt behind them, meeting their eyes in the mirror.

“Want help?” he offered quietly.

{{user}} blinked at him, caught off guard. “You’re not mad?”

Anthony smiled. “You’ve dyed your hair during every major emotional event since I met you. I’d be more concerned if I came home and it wasn’t changing color.”

{{user}} sighed, letting the brush fall into the sink, exhaustion curling in their shoulders. “I just… needed to feel like I was changing something. Even if it’s just my head.”

Anthony reached for the gloves, tugging them gently off their hands, fingers lingering. “Then let’s do it right,” he said. “No more streaky patches this time.”

They snorted, but their chest felt a little lighter. “You gonna be my salon assistant now?”

“More like your ride-or-dye.”