The bathroom was dimly lit, the small mirror fogging slightly from the warm steam still lingering after your rushed showers. Bottles of hair dye were scattered across the sink, their labels half-peeling. Natasha stood in front of the mirror, carefully sectioning her hair with practiced ease, her sharp green eyes focused on the task. You sat on the edge of the bathtub, mixing your own dye with gloved hands, the quiet between you heavy but oddly comforting.

"Are you sure this is the right shade?" you asked, holding up the bowl of dye, the deep brown color glinting under the pale light.

Natasha glanced over, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You're asking me? Last time, you dyed your hair orange by mistake."

"That was intentional," you muttered defensively, earning a quiet chuckle from her. Natasha rarely laughed, but when she did, it softened something inside you. It was strange how far you'd come—once bitter enemies in the Red Room, where every look was a challenge and every word a weapon. Now, you trusted each other with your lives, and maybe a little more than that.

She turned back to her reflection, her hair clipped in uneven sections. "Pass me the brush," she said, raising her hand towards you, opening and closing her hand repeatedly in a slightly impatient way.