“Good.”
That word lands like a door shutting.
He grabs the dye squeezes some on his hand and starts dragging it through with bare hands like he’s painting.
Purple slicks across his knuckles. Under his nails. Down his wrists.
It’s messy. It’s fast. It’s him. I watch for a second too long.
“Come here,” he says without looking at me.
I don’t move right away.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror—sharp and direct. A command without raising his voice.
I cross the tile, the air damp against my skin. When I reach his side, I see what he already knows: the back is a problem. He’s missing spots at the nape. The roots near the crown aren’t fully coated.
“You’re missing the back,” I say.
He makes a small sound, approval or annoyance, I can’t tell. He holds the dye out to me like he’s handing me something loaded.
I take it, but my gaze drops to the counter first.
I find the pair of gloves sit crumpled near the box, unused, like the idea of protecting himself was too polite to entertain.
I pick them up.
Maksim’s eyes flick to my hands. “No.”
“No?” I echo, already sliding one glove on.
He turns slightly, blocking me without touching me, just presence. “I said no.”
“They’re for me,” I say, voice steady even when my pulse isn’t. “Not for you.”
His gaze narrows.
I put the second glove on, snapping it at my wrist. The latex squeaks in the humid air. He stares at it like I’ve insulted him.
“You think I’m reckless,” he says.
It’s not a question. It’s not even accusation. It’s just… a thing he’s testing.
I lift my chin. “I think dye stains.”
His mouth tightens, then he looks away like the argument isn’t worth finishing.
“Do it,” he says.
Permission, like he’s giving me a knife and pretending he doesn’t care what I do with it.
I step behind him.
He braces his hands on the edge of the sink, shoulders flexing as he dips his head forward—offering the back of his neck like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t understand how intimate that is.
I squeeze dye into my gloved palm and work it into the nape, fingers massaging close to the skin. The purple is colder than I expect. Slick. Heavy.
His throat bobs once.
