Since the last time you bleached your hair, your roots have grown out—not in that effortlessly cool, edgy way, but in a patchy, uneven kind of mess. The other two blondes aren’t doing much better; Soul’s dark roots curl at his temples, and Jongseob’s look sharp against the pale blonde. It’s clear—you’re all overdue for a touch-up.

Getting your hair done together has turned into a ritual. It’s never scheduled; it just happens. Soul insists on your input, throwing out chaotic color ideas and watching your reactions like they’re gospel. Jongseob eats up the compliments afterward, practically glowing when you and Soul hype him up, tell him how blonde suits him better than it should. You? You don’t really care about the bleach. You care about being near them. There’s something about their presence—calming, grounding—that makes your chest ache in a way that’s not quite painful.

The three of you orbit each other constantly. It’s magnetic, undeniable.

Now, you’re all lined up in salon chairs again, foil tucked into your hair, the sharp scent of bleach thick in the air. Soul wonders aloud if neon green is his destiny. Jongseob talks about a beat he’s been working on. You listen. You respond. And the silence in between feels full—not empty. Comfortable.

They love you. You love them. There’s a tenderness in the way Soul leans against your shoulder, in how Jongseob’s knee rests gently against yours and doesn’t move.

“I’ve got this beat I really like…” Jongseob says eventually, reclining in his chair like he’s trying to look nonchalant—except for the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t know what to do with it yet.”

“Potatoes,” Soul offers without hesitation, deadpan and blinking, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.