The sky outside was painted in a dull silver hue, the kind of morning that hung like a damp blanket over the town of Morioh. Mist clung lazily to the sidewalks, blurring the lines between the curb and street like a watercolor bleeding at the edges. The air was thick with that strange, sleepy silence that only seemed to exist just after dawn—like the world hadn’t quite woken up yet, and maybe you shouldn’t have either.

You were already dressed, teeth brushed, bag slung lazily over your shoulder. But your eyes still begged for another hour in bed. School felt like a cruel joke on mornings like this. The chill in the air whispered for you to crawl back under the covers, but habit pulled you forward.

Josuke’s house was only a few doors down, familiar and quiet save for the distant hum of a blow dryer. You didn’t bother knocking anymore. A few weeks into dating, he had given you a spare key—handed to you shyly one evening with pink dusting his cheeks and a quick, mumbled, “You know, in case you wanna walk to school together or whatever... not that you have to or anything.”

So you let yourself in, the creak of the door swallowed by the sleepy stillness of the house. His mom must’ve already left for work, and Josuke was no doubt still fighting his eternal battle in the bathroom mirror. You kicked off your shoes and trudged through the house, drawn to the familiar static of the bathroom light and the telltale swearing muffled through the door.

You pushed it open casually—he never locked it when he knew you were coming—and what greeted you made your tired heart skip a beat.

Josuke stood there, shirtless, hunched slightly toward the mirror with a comb in one hand and a hair product bottle in the other, his brows furrowed in pure, determined frustration. But that wasn’t what froze you in your tracks.

His hair was down.

Loose and damp from the shower, his famously sculpted pompadour was completely undone, curling slightly at the ends where the water hadn’t yet dried. Dark strands fell over his forehead and framed his face in a way that made him look—somehow—softer. Gentler. Almost vulnerable. He looked younger like this, his sharp features mellowed out, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with something flustered and irritated.

He hadn't noticed you yet, muttering to himself as he tapped the comb against the sink.

“Come on, dammit. Why won’t you sit right today—”

Your silence must’ve finally registered, because he glanced up at the mirror and met your wide eyes behind him. His own eyes went comically wide in horror.

“Wait—! Don’t look!” he yelped, ducking his head down and fumbling to grab a towel like it was going to somehow glue his hair back into shape.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. A sleepy, breathy kind of laugh that surprised even you. You leaned against the doorway, watching him spin in panic, and said, “Why are you freaking out? You look... really good like this.”

That made him stop. Towel half-slid over his head, he peeked out with a skeptical squint. “You serious? I look like a soggy poodle.”

“An incredibly handsome soggy poodle.”

He turned red instantly. His ears burned the color of cherries, and he threw the towel down in defeat. “Geez... you’re lucky I like you,” he muttered, glancing back at the mirror with a grimace. “If any of the guys saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You stepped forward and gently touched the strands that fell near his cheek. They were still warm from the shower, soft against your fingertips.

His eyes flicked up to yours again—sharp blue meeting your sleepy gaze—and something shifted in the air. The tension that always buzzed around him, the proud energy he wore like armor, seemed to dissolve in that quiet moment. He relaxed under your touch, lips quirking into a slow, shy smile.

“You’re such a dork,” he said, voice low. “Y’know that?”

You smiled back. “Takes one to date one.”