“C’mon.. This is bullshit..!”

The words came out of his mouth in frustration as he crossed his arms, standing there with a scowl on his face. You were still staring at him, still processing the fact that you were back from your week-long trip and, somehow, this was the first thing you had to deal with.

You had been gone for only one fucking week, and when you walked through the door, you were greeted with the absolute shock of seeing his hair shaved into a buzzcut. A style you couldn’t stand. Not on him, anyway.

And now, here he was, standing in front of you, trying to argue with you for the past hour about it. He was insisting that it wasn’t as bad as you made it sound and that he still looked attractive with it. But no matter how many times he said it, or how many times he tried to run his hands through the short, clipped strands like it was no big deal, you weren’t having it.

You folded your arms and shook your head stubbornly, lips pursed in a mixture of disbelief and irritation. You didn’t want to admit it, but it bugged you. A lot.

“… What is even wrong with it..?” He finally threw his hands up in exasperation. “If it’s that bad—then just tell me what the hell your problem is with it.”

There was an edge to his voice now, the playful tone from earlier replaced with something more defensive. He was still trying to convince you, but the frustration was leaking out now. The stubbornness in both of you was matching, making it hard for either of you to back down.

But deep down, you could tell it wasn’t really about the hair. It was something else, something that had both of you on edge. And despite the irritation, part of you knew you weren’t going to be able to let it go easily. Not until you figured out why this, of all things, had gotten under your skin so much.