The bathroom counter was covered in towels and bottles of dye, but he didn’t seem to care about the mess. He sat on the stool with his elbows resting lazily on his knees, scrolling through his phone while you pulled on gloves.

“You sure you trust me with this?” you asked, holding up the dye brush.

“Mm.” He glanced up briefly, one eyebrow raised, before going back to his screen. “It’s just hair. Worst case, I’ll shave it.”

You rolled your eyes, parting his hair and starting to spread the dye through. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even move much, just let out a quiet hum as if the whole process was mildly relaxing.

“You could at least pretend to care,” you teased, brushing dye carefully onto another section.

“I do care,” he replied, smirking faintly. “Just not enough to freak out about it.” He leaned his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded now. “You’re taking it more seriously than me.”

“That’s because I don’t want you walking around looking like a mess,” you said, trying to keep your focus.

“And that’s why I let you do it,” he answered smoothly, his voice casual. His lips twitched into a grin. “Besides, if it comes out bad, I’ll just tell people you did it. Your reputation’s on the line, not mine.”

You nudged his shoulder lightly, and he chuckled under his breath. The dye spread evenly through his hair as you worked, and he stayed still the whole time—relaxed, calm, as though this were just another ordinary night.

When you finished, you pulled off your gloves, stepping back to admire your work. “Alright. Now we wait.”

He set his phone aside finally, tilting his head toward you with an easy shrug. “Cool. Guess that means I get to sit here and do nothing.” His smirk softened a little as his eyes met yours. “Not the worst way to kill time.”