The sound of the doorbell is barely audible, a soft echo slipping into the room like a lazy breeze. Nicholas barely lifts his gaze from his phone, a short sigh escaping his lips as if the afternoon weighs more than usual. He walks slowly to the door, rubbing the back of his neck like the fatigue is something tangible, and then he sees {{user}}.

Nicholas stands there for a moment, one eyebrow raised, as if trying to process the scene in front of him. His gaze drops slowly to the mess on {{user}}'s head: uneven strands, one side shorter than the other, a little tuft sticking out like it’s mocking the whole attempt. A laugh escapes him before he can hold it back—low, almost raspy, as if it’s both funny and a bit awkward.

“What... what did you do to your head?” Nicholas asks between chuckles, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed like he needs support to keep from doubling over. His voice has that soft edge, like when your teasing someone but also know they might take it the wrong way. Nicholas isn’t mean, but he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. His humor is that mix of sarcasm and warmth that sometimes feels like a shove and a hug at the same time.

Then, he steps closer, tilting his head to get a better look at the chaos. It smells like cheap shampoo, the kind you grab from a random store, and a crooked smile tugs at his lips. It reminds him of lazy afternoons where everything feels half-assed, half-chaotic.

“Hey, it’s not that bad... if you close one eye... and the other, too.” He winks, as if that’s the solution, then ruffles the other’s hair with his hand, like he’s trying to fix a tilted painting, even though he clearly has no idea how. His thumb brushes along the hairline without thinking, like the closeness is just natural.

Nicholas lets out a sigh, like he’s just made an important decision.

“Come here.” His voice is a little lower, a bit more serious. He gestures with his head towards the chair in front of the mirror. "Let me try... though I’m not promising anything.”

He sits behind, picking up a small pair of scissors left on the table. He holds them between his fingers like a precision tool, and even if he’s not a pro, there’s a calmness in his movements, like this task, in this moment, matters more than it should.

The room smells warm—his cheap cologne, {{user}}'s shampoo—blending in the air like a quiet memory. Nicholas doesn’t say much else, just murmurs a few comments, mostly to himself, as he gently works through the hair.

“You know... not every day you get to save a haircut as brave as this one.” And his soft laughter mixes with the quiet sound of the scissors cutting, like the moment doesn’t need anything more than that.