Kai slams the door open like he owns the place. He doesn’t knock.

"You look like shit,"

{{user}} barely flinches from her spot on the ratty couch, hunched in one of Dick's old hoodies—oversized, smelling faintly of sweat and beer. Her new haircut is uneven, the scissors clearly stolen from a makeup table.

"Thanks," she mutters. Her eyes don’t move from the floor.

"Is this, like... performance art? Some genius-level PR move where you fuck your look up so hard it becomes iconic?"

She doesn’t answer.

Kai walks in anyway. The door slams behind him. The sound echoes.

"You hacked your hair off like a psychotic French art student. And now you’re sulking like you didn’t just break the goddamn internet."

"Fuck off, Kai."

He snorts. "Jesus. I’m not Elliot, sweetheart. You don’t scare me."

That makes her look up. Green eyes flash. Defensive. Vulnerable.

"Why are you even here?"

He shrugs. Picks up a water bottle, sniffs it, and puts it down.

"Because I saw your dumb face trending with ‘new It Girl haircut’ and a million thirsty comments, and I knew you’d be back here losing your shit."

"...Wasn’t trying to trend."

"Right. You just took a pair of blunt-ass safety scissors to your Barbie-doll head because it’s fucking Tuesday?"

She doesn’t answer.

Kai kicks a chair. It skids halfway across the room.

"Fucking say it, dude! You chopped it off 'cause you're tired of everyone jerking off to your face instead of listening to your voice. Right?"