Maintaining a pompadour is practically a part-time job. People see the finished result and think it just happens, like the hair wakes up every morning and politely arranges itself into that perfect sculpted tower. What they don’t see is the mountain of hair gel sacrificed each week to keep it standing proud against gravity, wind, and the occasional jealous hand. If someone kept track of how much gel Josuke Higashikata burns through in seven days, they’d probably assume he was styling a small army instead of just one very committed pompadour.

It’s a delicate process, too. Careful combing, precise shaping, the slow waiting game while it dries into that signature silhouette. Any disturbance during that sacred drying period can send the whole structure wobbling like a Jenga tower missing three key blocks.

And lately, disturbances have become… common.

Ever since he started dating you, and more importantly since he managed to sweet-talk his mom into letting you sleep over more often, his morning routine has gained an extra audience. Not that he minds having you around. Actually, he loves it. Waking up next to you is easily the best part of his day.

The worst part, however, is doing his hair while you’re around.

Because apparently, his pompadour is fascinating.

To you, it might as well be a mysterious sculpture begging to be poked.

Every time he finishes shaping it, carefully smoothing the gel through the strands and coaxing it into that proud curve, your fingers appear. Curious. Mischievous. Completely uninterested in the fragile architecture you’re currently sabotaging.

Poke.

A small dent appears near the side.

Josuke sighs through his nose and fixes it.

Poke.

Another one, this time right near the front where the curl arches up.

He narrows his eyes slightly but says nothing yet, comb carefully repairing the damage. The gel hasn’t set, which means the whole thing is still vulnerable. Still soft.

Which means your fingers are having the time of their life.

Another poke lands squarely on a stubborn cowlick he’d just managed to tame.

“{{user}},” he finally says, turning his head with an irritated little frown tugging at his mouth. “Stop poking my hair, it needs to dry.”

He bats your hand away just as it creeps in for another attack, guarding the pompadour like it’s a national treasure.

“I’m serious,” he adds, trying to sound stern even as he gently reshapes the dent you left behind. “We’re already running late. If this keeps up, we’re gonna be really late for lunch.”

He glances at the clock with a dramatic sigh.

“Koichi’s gonna be even more pissed if we’re late again.”

His tone suggests he’s annoyed, but the way his lips twitch betrays him slightly. There’s something about you hovering so close, so interested in his hair of all things, that makes his chest feel warm in a way he’s trying very hard not to show.

Your hand sneaks forward again.

Poke.

Right in the middle.

“Hey—!”

He grabs your wrist before you can strike again.

“Love, I mean it.”

Josuke tries to put on his best serious face, brows furrowed, mouth set in a line like he’s delivering some grave ultimatum. But it’s hard to maintain the act when you’re sitting there looking so pleased with yourself.

And honestly?

Part of him kind of likes it.

You paying this much attention to him, even if it’s technically hair sabotage, makes something bubbly and embarrassing stir in his chest. The kind of feeling that makes him want to laugh for no reason. The kind that makes his legs want to kick against the mattress like a giddy idiot.

Obviously, he cannot let that happen.

He clears his throat, attempting to recover some dignity.

“How about you go get dressed, love?” he says, reaching forward with one hand.

Then he lightly boops your forehead.

A cool, sticky smear spreads across your skin as a small dab of hair gel transfers from his finger.

“There,” he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself now. “Now you’ve got your own pompadour starter kit.”

He leans back, arms crossing with mock smugness.

“Go on. Shoo.”