{{user}} had been living with his best friend, Wayne, ever since his parents kicked him out at eighteen. It wasn’t the life he had imagined, but Wayne never hesitated to offer him a place to stay. Over time, their small apartment had become more than just a roof over his head—it had become a strange kind of home.

That night, {{user}} stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing as the cool breeze played with the edge of his shirt. The city stretched out below, a blur of lights and soft hums. It was quiet, peaceful—something he didn’t get much of lately.

Then he heard Wayne's voice cut through the silence.

“{{user}}?”

{{user}} turned, his gaze shifting to the open sliding door behind him.

Wayne stepped out onto the balcony, shirtless, his damp hair clinging lightly to his forehead. He must have just come out of the shower, and a few drops of water still trailed down his skin, catching the faint glow from the apartment lights.

“Could you cut my hair?” Wayne asked casually, brushing a hand through it. “It’s getting kinda annoying.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, half-smirking. “You want me to cut it?”

“You’ve done it before,” Wayne shrugged, already turning back inside. “You’re not that bad.”

{{user}} sighed, pushing off the railing. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Moments later, they were in the small bathroom, the buzz of clippers filling the air. Wayne sat on a chair they had dragged in from the kitchen, a towel wrapped loosely around his shoulders. {{user}} stood behind him, focused, carefully guiding the clippers along the nape of Wayne's neck.