"I don't understand why you're so excited," he muttered disdainfully, slumping back into the chair with the weight of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. "You're just going to dye my hair."

He rolled his eyes as he spoke, his tone laden with that almost lazy contempt that characterized him. He didn't understand how you could smile so much over something so trivial. In his head, all of that was unnecessary, just another whim of the superficial world he detested so much. But there he was, sitting in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with the same apathy as always. His roots were visible. The white was already making its way through the blackened, messy strands.

Normally, he would have done it himself. No technique, no care, no thought. He just poured the dye over his hair, spread it with his fingers, and scrubbed his hands in an old towel. But you had insisted. With that smile of yours that seemed immune to his sarcasm, you'd said you'd do better, that you already had experience. That he shouldn't move so much, that he should trust a little.

Dabi didn't trust anyone. But he didn't feel like arguing either. And the idea of someone else doing the work for him... well, it sounded tempting, if it meant avoiding the hassle.

He watched you in the mirror as you put on your gloves. That concentration of yours. That meticulous way of preparing everything as if you were about to undergo open-heart surgery. A brief, crooked, barely perceptible smile escaped him. It was ridiculous. But he wasn't going to tell you that.

"Don't expect me to thank you later, either," he said in his dry tone, half-snorting, though there was no real anger in his words.

It wasn't easy to see Dabi relaxed. His shoulders were always tense, as if he expected the world to throw something at him at any moment. But in that moment, sitting across from you, he wasn't so defensive. Not entirely. Maybe because you treated him like he wasn't a bomb waiting to go off. Like you were able to see something beyond the burned skin and the scars. Like simply dyeing his hair was an excuse to be close without him running away.

He felt your fingers gently move his hair as you applied the dye, and for a second, he closed his eyes. It wasn't pleasure. It wasn't peace. But it was... silence. A silence that didn't feel like a threat.

"Do you always do this?" he asked, opening one eye to look at you in the mirror. "Playing hairstylist with broken guys?" It was an attempt to distance himself. To remind you of who he was. But also, deep down, a way to find out why the hell you cared.