Lee Maciver (6)

Lee Maciver’s flat wasn’t much. A two-room stretch of mismatched tiles and worn floorboards, faded posters thumbtacked to the walls, and a view of the alley behind the corner shop. But it was his—quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the city’s hum to let a person breathe. The living room was half-lived in: ashtray full, hoodie slung over the arm of the couch, records stacked sideways on the shelf. It smelled like laundry detergent and the ghost of cheap cologne.

The bathroom was even smaller. Tile cracked at the edges, sink stained with toothpaste and dye residue from who-knows-when. The mirror fogged too easily, and the light buzzed faintly overhead. But you were in it, cross-legged on the closed toilet lid, an old towel wrapped around your shoulders, and that made the space feel different. Softer.

Your hair—whatever candy-colored shade it had once been—was dulled now, faded to something in-between, like the memory of a dream. He noticed it first a week ago, like he noticed everything about you. Even the things you tried to hide.

Now, with a box of dye half-balanced on the sink and gloves snapped onto his hands, Lee stood behind you, heart a little too loud in his chest. He wasn’t used to this sort of closeness. Not like this—domestic, steady, quiet. His fingers weren’t made for gentleness, not really, but they tried. He parted your hair slowly, methodically, dipping the brush into the thick cream, coating strand by strand.

The dye smelled sharp and chemical, but he didn't care. Not with you sitting still like that, trusting him.

He studied the curve of your neck as he worked, the way your breathing slowed when he pressed a little too close. You looked like art in this light. Tired, beautiful, hurting in places no one could see. There were old bruises hidden in your smile, he knew that. Pieces of you chipped by the world, by people who never knew how to hold something fragile without crushing it. But Lee—he handled you like something sacred.