The light filtering through the cracked cabin window hit the array of half-empty dye boxes scattered across the table. Reds. Blues. A harsh purple. Even some faded bleach. Natalie sat on the floor, you sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, a towel wrapped around your shoulders, the scent of bleach and boxed dye already thick in the air.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, eyeing the rows of half-used dye bottles Natalie had laid out beside the sink. “Maybe I should just go back to brown.”

Natalie scoffed gently, perched on the closed toilet seat, legs spread like a throne. “You’ve done brown. That’s old you. We’re rebranding, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the way your lips twitched. “Alright, Miss Stylist. What do you suggest?”

She held up two bottles—one a deep wine red, the other a punchy electric blue. “This one screams ‘heartbreak recovery’”—she wiggled the red—“and this one says ‘I’m unhinged, but in a hot way.’”

You raised a brow. “And what about one that says ‘I let my kinda-girlfriend pick my hair color because she’s scary when she’s passionate about aesthetics’?”

Natalie leaned in, fingers brushing your chin as she tipped your face up to hers. “Then we go with this one.” She picked a hair dye. “Because you trust me.”