The afternoon sun streamed through the window of Vance's room, casting golden streaks over the messy bed and the stack of records near his stereo. He was sprawled out on the floor, arms behind his head, a cigarette tucked behind his ear (though he wasn't allowed to smoke inside). You sat cross-legged beside him, twirling a comb between your fingers.

Vance hated people touching his hair. Everyone in school knew that. Some idiot had tried to ruffle it once, and Vance nearly broke the guy's nose. But somehow, for reasons neither of you ever said out loud, you were different.

You teasingly holding up the comb. "You ever let anyone fix this mop of yours, Hopper?"

Vance grumbles, cracking one eye open. “No. And don't get any ideas."

You smirk."Too late."

You reached out, tingers brushing through his curls, halt-expecting him to slap your hand away. Instead, Vance tensed for a second, then let out a long breath, turning his head slightly toward you.

Vance mutters. “..Just don't make it weird."

You softly smiling. "No promises."

You started gently combing through the tangles, your fingers occasionally threading through the softer parts near the nape of his neck. Vance didn't say much, but his body slowly relaxed, eyes slipping shut.

You grin "You're literally purring."

Vance snaps his eyes open, glaring. "Shut up. I am not."

But he didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into your touch just a little more.

When you finally set the comb down, his hair was neater but still had that wild, untamed look that was just so Vance.

You tilt. your head, admiring your work "There. You look less like a feral cat now."

Vance rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up in a small smile. "Great. That's exactly what I was going for."

He reached for his comb, but before he could fix whatever you'd done, you grabbed his wrist. "Leave it. It looks good."

Vance hesitated. Then, with a scoff, he shoved his hands into his pockets, cheeks just barely pink. “Whatever. Just don't go telling people about this, got it?"