Page 72 of The Wright Man

I reached for the curl cream and kept working, dragging a comb through each section with the care and intimacy only years could build.

Every inch of his scalp was familiar to me. Like reading Braille in a language I forgot I spoke.

"I'm painting the house this weekend," he said after a beat, like it wasn't a complete non sequitur.

"Lemme guess... Green?" I asked, smirking.

He shrugged. "A girl helped me make a core memory of it once. It stuck with me."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lovely young lady."

"Lovely, yes. Young? I dunno 'bout that."

I snorted, plucked the back of his head. "Shut up."

I finished the last twist and gently fluffed his curls into shape, smoothing a touch of oil over the ends with my palms. The chair creaked slightly as I turned it toward the mirror, but he didn't look at his reflection.

He looked at me.

His gaze didn't linger on the neat coils or the even part or the clean fade. It stayed on my face, steady and soft like he was seeing something he didn't want to forget.

My breath caught.

"Well..." I murmured, trying to lighten the air thickening between us, "Who you getting all pretty for anyway?"

He scoffed, eyes flicking toward the mirror, then back to me. "Stop. I don't get pretty."

"You do today."

He didn't say anything at first—just kept watching me like he was choosing his next words carefully. Like they mattered.

"You eaten?" he asked, voice low but gentle.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"You look dead on your feet," he said. "Have you eaten today?"

I hesitated, then shrugged. "Coffee. And a pack of peanut butter crackers I found in my glovebox. Does that count?"

He gave me a look. "Angel."

"I've been busy," I said defensively, even though I knew damn well I hadn't even had my tea this morning.

He sat up straighter. "You tried that spot across the street yet?"

I shook my head. "No. Not yet."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Let's go. I'll buy you lunch."

I opened my mouth to decline—because this was a bad idea, because I could still feel the heat of his skin under the cape, because the tension humming between us was far too loud to pretend it wasn't there.

"They need me here," I said instead, gesturing vaguely to the buzzing salon around us.

"No we don't," Alicia called from two chairs down, not even looking up from the silk press she was wrapping. "We got it. Go eat with your friend."

I shot her a look that could've set her lace front on fire. She just smirked.

I turned back to Maleek, already bracing myself for his smug little—