You didn’t expect it. You were sprawled on his worn couch, flipping lazily through a medical journal, when he walked in from the bathroom with a towel draped around his shoulders.

“You’ve got steady hands,” he said casually, tossing a pair of hair-cutting scissors into your lap. “Figure you can do something about this before I start looking like I live under a bridge.”

You blinked. “You want me to cut your hair?”

He shrugged. “It’s just hair. And you’re already here. Unless you want Wilson to do it—and let’s not pretend he wouldn’t show up with a salon cape and a scented candle.”

So now you’re standing behind him in the kitchen of his apartment, lights warm and quiet around you. He’s sitting on a stool, head tilted slightly forward, fingers resting over his cane. You run your fingers gently through his unruly hair to part it, and for once—he’s still.

“You’re enjoying this,” you murmur.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m enduring this,” he says, but there’s a softness in his voice you rarely hear outside emergencies—or moonlight.

You feel him relax under your touch as the minutes pass. His usual snark quiets. Every time your fingertips graze the back of his neck, you see his breath hitch—subtle, but there. Maybe even vulnerable.

“You’re good at this,” he says suddenly, more thoughtful than mocking.

You smile. “Thanks. Want me to do your eyebrows too?”

That earns you a snort. “Touch my eyebrows and you’re sleeping on the fire escape.”