Her secret

1.0

My client's reflection blinked back at me in the mirror, eyes half-closed, shoulders slouched in that way women did when the chair became the only break they'd get all week.

She was a nurse-one of my regulars. Her scrubs still peeked out from under her hoodie, and I knew the night shift had eaten her alive.

"You got me looking like somebody again," she sighed, grinning as I smoothed the iron down one last section.

I smiled. "That was always the plan."

I spun her around, handed her the mirror. She tilted her head side to side, fingers grazing her silk press like she couldn't believe it was hers. That look-the quiet disbelief that turned into pride-still gave me a rush every time.

"You're booked up through next week?" she asked, already clutching her phone like she'd text me before I even answered.

"Pretty much. But if you text me early, I might be able to squeeze your sister in."

Her laugh was soft, grateful. "You always come through." She slid cash into my hand, plus a folded twenty that told me she meant the compliment.

When she left, the salon filled back in around me-the dryers, the chatter, the faint hum of clippers drifting from the barber side.

I wiped down my station, checking my phone. My next appointment was already ten minutes late. Typical.

"You see Kian today?" Rina called from across the room, elbows deep in the shampoo bowl. Her braids were tied back with a scarf, the tails already damp from splashing water.

I glanced up. "No. Why?"

"He was supposed to drop off more shampoo and conditioner this morning. He loves to say he's gonna drop off stuff first thing in the morning and don't show up until the end of the day."

I smirked, pulling a comb through my sanitized tools. "He loves making promises he can't keep."

"Exactly." She rinsed out a head of knotless braids, her client half-asleep under the spray. "Text him. You the only one he actually responds to."

I didn't answer. Just lined my clips in a row, pretending that was all it was-that he respected me, trusted me, saw me as reliable. Not that I spent nights tangled up in his sheets, swearing I'd keep it casual.

The bell above the door chimed. Two guys from the barber side walked in, smelling like too much Dior Sauvage and trouble. They came in loud on purpose, sneakers squeaking against the tile, conversation pitched so everybody would look.

"Damn, Rina," one grinned, leaning on the counter. "You over here looking good, still not gonna let me take you out?"

She flicked water at him without missing a beat, grinning back just enough to keep her client laughing. "Please. Go line somebody up before I tell your girlfriend what you really be doing while you're here."

The room cackled-her client, the braider two stations down, even one of the nail techs who pretended not to listen.

The other one turned his eyes on me, slow, lazy, like I was supposed to flinch. "Amira, you got time to squeeze me in? I'll tip heavy."

I arched a brow, not even pausing my disinfect spray. "You don't even have hair."

The laughter doubled. His boy slapped him on the back, and he grinned like he meant to make himself the punchline. "Alright, alright. Had to try."

Still, he let his eyes drag a little too long before they both drifted back to their side, the smell of clippers and aftershave trailing after them.

Rina bent over her client, voice dropping just low enough. "You notice they only pull that when Kian's not around?"

I sectioned off my mannequin's hair for practice work, blow dryer whirring in my hand. I didn't answer. She wasn't wrong.

The truth was, everything in here bore his fingerprint-the shelves stocked with whatever product line he decided to push, the sleek barber chairs he picked out himself, even the playlist humming low in the background.

And whether I liked it or not, so did I.

I tied up my smock a little tighter, pulling my curls back into a bun before the next client. My phone buzzed on the counter, and I swiped it open half-expecting nothing, half-hoping for... something.

Alina's daycare had sent a picture earlier: paint-stained fingers, cheeks flushed, her curls wild around her face. She was smiling so hard her eyes squinted, holding up some lopsided paper crown she must've made herself.

My chest softened instantly. Three years old, and she was already loud with personality. She loved pink glitter everything, wanted to wear princess costumes to leave the house constantly, and never stopped talking once she got going.

I typed out a quick reply to Ms. Dorsey, her teacher.

I set the phone down, pressing a hand over it for a second like I could hold onto the picture longer.

Days like this made the grind worth it-the double bookings, the late nights, the ache in my hands.

It wasn't about Kian or the shop or even the clients that lined up every week.

It was about her. Keeping her steady. Keeping her smiling.

"Who you cheesin' over?" Rina teased, glancing over while toweling off her client.

"My baby," I said simply. That was the only answer that ever mattered.

The dryers hummed louder as someone flicked them back on, swallowing up our banter. I moved around my station, laying out the products for my next silk press.

The bell chimed again. This time, it was a group of women, laughing, tugging at their bonnets, the kind of girls who came in together like church. The whole shop seemed to shift for them-chairs scraping back, chatter rising, the energy lifting.

I greeted them, checked the schedule, pointed them toward the waiting area. My phone buzzed again, this time with a short message:

I stared at it a long second. I didn't answer.

I hesitated, thumb hovering, then typed back.

By the time I'd wrapped my client, smoothed her edges, and walked her to the register, the energy in the shop had shifted. It was subtle at first-conversations tapering, glances darting toward the door. Then the air just... tilted.

Kian.

He stepped inside like he owned the place-because he did. His fitted cap low, fresh sneakers, chain tucked under a black tee. He had that aura that said he didn't need to speak to be noticed, and every eye followed him automatically.

He didn't look at me right away. Just scanned the room, chin lifted, the unspoken weight of boss settling over every station. Then, finally, his gaze found mine.

A quick head nod.

I gave him the smallest nod back. Nothing more.

But that was enough. Enough for Rina to cut her eyes at me like mmhmm. Enough for one of the barbers strolling through to smirk like he knew something. The whispers were silent but loud all the same. Everyone knew. Everyone always knew.

I waited a few minutes, fussing with my combs, wiping my mirror like it suddenly needed polishing. Only when he disappeared into the back office did I gather my phone and slip away from my station.

The hallway was quieter, the buzz of dryers muffled behind me. My heartbeat felt too loud in the silence.

Everyone knew something was going on between us-that much was obvious. But I hated the eyes, the smirks, the way people made a story out of a nod. Kian liked it, though. He liked the ownership in people's minds. I couldn't stand it.

To me, what happened between us wasn't for the shop floor. It wasn't for the girls to giggle about or for the barbers to clown. It was mine. Messy, complicated, maybe a mistake-but still mine.

I pushed open the office door, letting it click shut behind me.

The office smelled different from the rest of the shop. Less hairspray, more leather and cologne, faint traces of smoke clinging to the walls.

Kian was behind the desk, phone pinned between his shoulder and ear, a neat stack of twenties spread in front of him. His fingers moved quick, crisp counts slipping between calloused hands.

"Yeah, I heard you," he muttered into the phone, voice low and even. "I'ma handle it. Just chill till I get there."

I slid up onto the edge of the desk, crossing my ankles. He didn't glance up right away, just kept moving bills from one pile to the next like muscle memory.

When he finally looked over, his gaze dragged slow, from my knees to my eyes. "Took you long enough," he said, not unkind, but edged with that tone that always reminded me who called the shots.

"I was cleaning up."

He smirked like that answer was good enough for now, then reached overhead to grab a box off the shelf. His shirt rode up just enough for the gun at his hip to flash. Black steel. Sharp reminder.

I looked away, pretending to adjust a clip in my smock. That was the thing about Kian-he never tried to hide the danger that came with him. If anything, he wore it like part of his outfit.

Born and raised in Philly, he'd tell you he loved his city more than anything. Loved the grind, the corners, the noise. Said it made him. Said it owed him. He'd come up rough, no handouts, no soft landings, and now he moved like a man who couldn't let that past go even if he wanted to.

The shop was his pride on paper. Sleek chairs, polished mirrors, steady clientele. But everyone knew it was more than blowouts and fades keeping these lights on. The business washed the real money. Money that came in rubber-banded stacks, the kind sitting right in front of me.

"Listen," he said into the phone, sharper now. "If they got a problem, they can bring it to me. Tonight." A pause. His jaw tightened. "Nah, I'll pull up myself."

He ended the call, tossed the phone down like it had offended him. For a second the room was just the sound of bills sliding into a drawer. Then his eyes were on me again, dark, steady.

"You didn't text me back earlier."

I tilted my head, trying to keep it light. "I was busy working, Kian."

His smirk deepened, half amusement, half warning. "You know I don't like being left on read."

There it was-that casual edge, like a hand on the back of my neck. Not enough to push. Just enough to remind me it could.

I shifted on the desk, leaning back on my hands. "Well, you got me now."