“I’m sitting in a chair.”
“You’re sitting in a chair while someone pushes you to feel things and admit them out loud. That’s harder than it sounds.”
He doesn’t argue.
I finish with the trimmer, brush away the loose hairs, reach for the styling product. My fingers are steadier than they should be as I work it through his hair, given how aware I am of every point of contact.
“There.” I step back, turn the chair so he can see himself in the mirror. “Better.”
He stares at his reflection for a long moment. The haircut has softened his face—or maybe exposed it. He looks less armored. More human. More like the boy I knew before grief and responsibility turned him into someone sharp and impenetrable. More like someone I could fall for, if I were stupid enough to let myself.
“I look different.”
“You look like yourself.” I undo the cape, brush off his shoulders. “The version of yourself that isn’t hiding behind neglect and bad haircuts.”
He stands, runs a hand through the newly shaped hair. I can tell he’s not sure what to do with it—this version of himself he can suddenly see.
“Same time tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll work on more squares.”
“Tomorrow’s a game day.”
“Then we’ll do it earlier. Or later. Whatever works.” I start cleaning up my station, keeping my tone casual. “This isn’t something you get to skip because of scheduling conflicts.”
“Gisele—”
“I’m not asking, Bennett.” I turn to face him. “You committed to this. You’re going to keep committing, even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.”
Bennett holds my gaze for a long moment. His expression shifts—not resignation, exactly. More like acceptance. Or recognition. Like he’s seeing something in me I didn’t mean to show.
I break eye contact first.
“Fine.”
“Good.” I smile, nudge him toward the door. “Now get out of here. I have actual paying customers arriving soon.”
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re not charging me?”
“Consider it an investment.” I wave him off. “In your emotional development and my ongoing entertainment.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his face—there and gone in a second, but real. I want to see it again. Want to be the person who makes him smile without armor, without calculation, without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Want too many things that aren’t part of the plan.
“See you tomorrow, Gisele.”
“See you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hands are shaking slightly as I sweep up the hair from the floor, my chest tight with emotion.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, too-bright eyes—and force myself to look away.
The door chimes. My first real client of the day.
I paste on my professional smile and get to work, but my hands still smell like his shampoo, and I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he said I kept showing up.
Maybe this was never just about helping him at all.
Fresh Cut, No Mercy
