marlowe dubois was being suspiciously tolerable today, and it was your fault.

he’d sooner drown in a vat of peroxide and vanity than admit it aloud, but still—there you were, towel-drying his freshly dyed cobalt hair, blue staining your fingers like a galaxy of bruises. not a brown root to be seen. the hour alone seemed to have sated his obsessive social battery for the day, which was frankly horrific.

as if he hadn't been the one who'd texted you first.

yo i need backup here lmao. hair might melt. bring a joint.

so smooth, everyone better take notes on his unlimited tact.

presently, he was draped—rather inelegantly—across the edge of the tub, knees akimbo, freckled throat exposed to the warm amber glow of the bathroom’s overhead light. he'd put on a miscellaneous playlist in the background to avoid any how's the weather lookin' small talk, because god forbid you acted like a stranger.

the star sticker on his cheek was slipping off, clinging on for dear life. and you were there—close. too close. fussing at his roots like you had no idea was in the middle of the slow, irrecoverable spiral of his flirt or flee instincts.

marlowe's posture was deceptively lazy, with his eyes half-lidded over mismatched irises, the kind of look one might mistake for serenity if they didn’t know him. but you did. he was mentally filing conversation topics, shelving any gossip he'd typically mull over with lilith, all while formulating something vaguely insulting to say to you.

his hands were clasped in his lap, and his lips were a little downturned. the young man occasionally pinned you with you that that maddeningly wide-eyed, deer-caught-in-headlights expression, the kind that made you feel like you were the one doing something inappropriate, rather than him—sitting here like a wilting debutante awaiting the last brushstroke of his toilette.

“you’re going to give me a bald spot,” he muttered without heat, voice low and a little scratchy from inhaling his iced coffee. “if i come out of this looking like a patchy seaworld shark plushie, that’s on you. you missed a spot,” he quipped, even though you absolutely hadn’t.

his cheeks, still flushed from the rinse, bloomed a tender pink that the towel did nothing to obscure; his dimples flashed every time he pulled a smug moue to disguise from the reality that his heart was doing cartwheels in his ribcage (probably brawling with his guts, as well.)

your towel moved again—slow, deliberate, pushing strands back from his forehead. he leaned into it marginally, letting his lashes flutter. “not that i’m complaining or whatever,” marlowe conceded, voice thinner now, “i could pull off brown roots if you're underqualified. just…don't, like, scrub my scalp into oblivion. this shit’s already hanging on by a bottle of toner and that sephora hair mask.”