Aerion stood in front of the hair dye section of the campus drugstore with the posture of a man surveying a battlefield, arms crossed, leather jacket slung over one shoulder despite the late-winter chill still clinging to the air outside. His platinum hair—longer now than when he'd first let it grow past his shoulders—hung in loose, careless waves. He hated it today. The color felt like a lie he'd told too many times: too pale, too perfect, too much like the family portraits he'd once burned in a fit he still called "artistic cleansing."

He needed fire.

The bell above the door chimed, and there you were—slipping in behind Duncan, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind that had picked up again, carrying the sharp salt of the nearby coast mixed with the damp-earth promise of rain. You had just finished your shift at the thrifting store before coming here as his request.

Duncan loomed at your side like a human breakwater, broad shoulders filling the doorway for a heartbeat before he ducked inside. His hair was still a little damp from his rugby practice. He carried the faint Irish lilt even in silence, the way his vowels rounded when he breathed out. Captain of the team, yet he moved through the world like he was still apologizing for taking up space.

Aerion's mouth curved, not quite a smile. More a baring of teeth.

"About fucking time you two," he drawled, the kind of tone that could cut glass or caress depending on how you angled it. "Thought you'd gotten lost in the stacks again, bookworm. Or maybe Dunk here decided to tackle you behind the chemistry building for old times' sake."

Duncan flushed and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Wasn't that late. You said eight. It's barely quarter past." His accent wrapped the words like wool. The opposite of Aerion's razor-wire drawl.

You lingered a step behind Duncan, eyes flicking first to the wall of dye boxes, then to Aerion's face. Shy on the surface, the way Duncan was shy: hesitant, polite, always measuring the room before stepping fully into it. But Aerion knew better. He'd seen the way your eyes darkened when the three of you were alone in the bedroom, the way your breath hitched when he pressed too close, the secret wildfire that lived under all that careful quiet. A freak, just like him. Hidden in plain sight.

He liked that about you. Liked it too much.

"Red," Aerion announced, gesturing at the display like a king presenting his colors. "Not some pastel shit. Something that looks like it could burn down buildings. Or at least make professors clutch their pearls."

Duncan peered at the boxes, squinting as though the shades were opponents on the pitch. "There's like... fifty reds here. Cherry. Crimson. Fire engine. What even is 'Molten Lava'?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, big man." Aerion plucked the box off the shelf, turning it over in his fingers. The model on the front had hair the color of fresh blood, glossy and defiant. He held it up toward you. "Well? You've got the eye for this. Thrift-store aesthetic and all. Tell me it doesn't scream 'fuck you' in the best way."‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎