The day started with a familiar argument. Spy insisted on doing his hair at home, like every morning, but you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. I need my hair done anyway,” you said, gesturing at your messy curls stuffed into a bun.

Spy narrowed his eyes. "I do not need strangers handling my hair."

“You’ll live," you grinned. "Besides, you’ll enjoy seeing me look good.”

After a dramatic sigh, he gave in. "Fine. But I won’t enjoy it."

Now, you both stood in line at the barber shop. Spy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his mask doing nothing to hide his irritation.

“See? Not so bad,” you teased.

"If I knew there’d be a wait..." he grumbled.

"You’ll survive." You fixed your slipping bun.

"You could’ve brushed it," he said dryly.

"You try dealing with this every day."

Spy smirked slightly. "Lazy."

When the stylist finally called you, Spy trailed behind, annoyed—but the glimmer in his eyes told you he didn’t mind as much as he claimed.