#perving out

You smile.

“Oh that’s my curl cream to help my curls not get frizzy, and then this is my mousse that helps the curls stay and give them volume.”

Andrew nods, a bit overwhelmed, but still trying to understand. He comes into the bathroom then, seeing all your products stacked on the counter. He picks one up, examining it, reading the ingredients.

“So you do all this every time you wash your hair?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

You look up at him then.

“Andrew, you have curly hair, don’t you put anything in it?”

He shakes his head.

“No, I just let it dry after washing it and then it ends up like this.”

He points to his head.

You giggle.

“Next time I come over to yours,” you begin, scrunching more mousse into your hair, “I’m gonna bring some things with me.”

That makes the sides of his mouth tilt up a little as he stares at you.

“Okay.”

Then a week later when you’re staying over at his you keep your promise, bringing all your products and your diffuser even, in a bag.

You make him sit the bathtub, head tilted back as you gently massage his scalp while washing it.

He lets out soft whimpers every time your nails press against his scalp, muttering out a soft “feels good” every now and then.

Then you condition his curls, using the same one you use on your hair.

“Smells like you,” he whispers as he breathes the fruity scent in.

You just let out a soft laugh and continue rubbing it in.

After washing it all off, you softly squeeze the mousse onto his head, the foam piling up. He leans back into you hands as you scrunch it all in gently, cooing at him, telling him how pretty and soft his curls are.

Once that’s done you plug the diffuser and gently hold his head while you run it all over his head, drying it. He closes his eyes when the heat hits him, face scrunching up a little.

“Nearly there honey, is that okay?”

He nods, “S’okay. Feels good.”

Your sweet, sweet boy.

Once it’s all done, you press a kiss on his beautiful fresh curls.

Tilting his face towards you, you cup his cheek.

“Did you like that? Your curls look so pretty, Andrew.”

“Yeah, I- that felt nice,” he says, blushing.

There’s a pause then, as his eyes bore into yours, mouth pursing, searching for the words.

“Can you do that for me again next week?”

Your heart clenches at how softly, how hesitantly he says the words.

“Yes of course, honey.”

You press a kiss to his cheek, then pause.

“Tell you what, you’re not allowed to wash your hair without me anymore.”

He smiles a little at that, eyes fluttering as he leans in to capture your lips with his.

“Think ‘m getting better than you at this.”

“Shut up.”

You turn to snatch the brush from his hands but he lifts it high above his head. You sigh. 

“What?”

“So I just had this great idea–”

You groan immediately. 

“No.”

“Stop, listen to me.”

You roll your eyes but look up expectantly, knowing he’s going to spit some corny dad joke like he always does.

“What if… we had matching hair?”

What the fuck?

You still, biting your lip to stop you from breaking into laughter. 

“Hear me out, what if we– fuck, stop laughing!” He whines. 

Your shoulders shake as you giggle, endeared.

“Okay sorry, I’m just a bit… Confused. But go on.”

He grunts, then gestures vaguely between the two of you.

“I think it'd be kinda sweet. And the colour you’ve got on is similar to what my hair used to look like back then.”

“Jack, that was auburn. This is a dark red.”

He groans. 

“It’s the same. And I wasn't thinkin' all of it,” he says, pinching a tiny section of curls near his temple. “Just one little streak.”

You sigh, the corners of your mouth already twitching again despite yourself.

“You are unbelievable.”

Jack only grins, his eyes crinkling more around the edges, and your chest aches a little. 

This is the same man who learned all the acupuncture points for your feet after you returned exhausted from work or uni too many nights in a row. The same man who somehow bought you a little silver ring almost every week because “this one had felt like you”. The same man who gently rubbed tattoo balm into your skin every time you came home with fresh ink, his rough hands impossibly gentle as he made sure every inch was covered before reminding you, for the hundredth time, not to scratch it.

You knew you were going to fold anyway. Maybe because you could never really say no to him.

Or maybe because, buried somewhere beneath your amused disbelief, there was something quietly possessive that unfurled in your chest at the thought of it. A tiny streak of your colour woven through his silver curls. Something only the two of you would understand. Something that would make him unmistakably yours, something he’d have to declare when people asked him, because they would.

And he knew you well enough to know that - it's why he asked in the first place.

So, after a moment, you simply sigh.

“Fine.”

You reach for the brush.

“Come here.”

His grin widens immediately, so soft and boyish that you can’t help but smile back. He leans down to softly peck your lips, mumbling a “thank you”.

“You are such a dork.”

“I know.”

You swap positions on the chair, but this time, he sits facing you. His hands rest loosely on your hips as you comb through his silver curls, finding the perfect little section.

Carefully, you twist the grey strand between your fingers before loading the brush with dye, and paint it from root to tip with slow, deliberate strokes, your tongue peeking between your teeth in concentration.

Jack doesn't say anything, just smiles and looks up at you all softly. 

Once you’re done wrapping it in foil, you peel your gloves off and gently wipe away the tiny smear of cherry-red dye that had stained the skin near his temple.

You tilt your head, admiring your handiwork.

“Perfect. You're gonna have to leave it on for thirty minutes."

He nods obediently.

“And then?”

“Then we'll both go have a shower.”

Before you can step away, his hands suddenly wrap around your waist.

You barely have time to protest before he effortlessly lifts you onto his lap.

“Jack!” You laugh, instinctively putting your hands on his shoulders.

His arms tighten around your waist, chin tipping up so he can look at you.

A slow Cheshire grin spreads across his face.

“Thirty minutes,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush yours. “Lot we could do in thirty minutes.”

The next night, Jack walks in through the doors of PTMC, and heads straight to the nurses station to Dana, who's there, managing the entire team like she always does. She glances up and stills as soon as Jack comes into view.

“What the hell’s in your hair?”

Jack blinks innocently.

“My hair?”

By now, Santos has looked up from where she was sitting and charting.

“No fucking way.”

He ignores them, squinting at the board.

“What've you got for me tonight, Dana?”

Dana folds her arms, peering up at him over her glasses. 

“Did you dye your damn hair?” she asks again. 

Jack just shrugs, instinctively reaching up, absent-mindedly touching the little streak before a small, private smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I did. So?”

Santos continues staring at him from behind the screen.

“You really let her do that?”

Jack shakes his head then. 

“Asked her to.”

Dana and Santos share a look, before Dana shakes her head, grinning, and Santos lets out a low whistle. 

“You're whipped, old man.”

A few snickers ripple around the nurses' station. Jack doesn't even flinch. 

Yeah, Jack thinks, smiling into his coffee. They asked, and now everyone knows who put it there.