Vance wasn’t exactly the type to get flustered. In fact, he prided himself on being unshakable—always cool, always confident. But now, as he stood beside {{user}} on the worn-out sidewalk of Bullworth’s downtown, something was off. His usual swagger had suddenly disappeared, replaced by a knot in his stomach that he couldn’t quite shake. Every time he tried to glance at them, his eyes darted away like they were on fire. He didn’t know how to act, didn’t know what to say. This feeling was… new.

"Uh… so, y’know," Vance muttered, his hands fiddling nervously with the collar of his leather jacket. He wasn’t looking at {{user}}. He couldn’t. He was too afraid of what they'd see if he did—how messed up he felt inside when they were around. "My hair’s, like, the most important thing, right? I mean, if it's not perfect, everything’s... off. But it’s not just about lookin' good, it's about control, you know?" He let out a dry chuckle, glancing down at his boots instead of meeting their eyes. "You gotta take care of it. Every day. Can’t let it fall flat. It’s gotta be just right, like a statement, y'know?"

He swallowed, his throat dry. Was he talking too much? Definitely. Was he making sense? He wasn’t even sure anymore. He couldn’t stop rambling about his hair like it was the only thing on his mind. And the truth was—it was on his mind. He talked about his hair constantly, it ment a ridiculous amount to him. But mostly… it was how they were looking at him. Or maybe how they weren’t.

"Anyway, uh… you don’t think it’s too much, right?" He glanced briefly, but only enough to catch a quick glimpse of their face before his gaze shot back to the ground. "I mean, I’ve been workin’ on it. It’s gotta look perfect."

He hoped they couldn’t hear how his voice cracked a little.