9.0
The shop was buzzing in that low, steady way it always did around midmorning.
Not chaotic, but humming - hair dryers roaring from two chairs over, the faint sizzle of a flat iron, music playing off someone's phone speaker in the corner.
The kind of background noise that usually grounded me, gave the day rhythm.
But today it grated. Every hum, every laugh, every snip of scissors pulled too sharp at my nerves.
I smiled at the client in my chair - an older woman getting her roots touched up - but the smile felt like it belonged to somebody else.
My hands moved on autopilot: section, apply, foil, smooth.
I'd done it a thousand times, muscle memory carrying me through.
Inside, though, I was somewhere else entirely.
Gold dress. Chandeliers. Brooks.
Every time I blinked, I saw his face. Four years hadn't blurred him one bit.
If anything, time had sharpened him - jaw harder, eyes colder, the weight of Washington written into the lines around his mouth.
But it was still him. The same eyes that had once looked at me like I was the only person in a room full of noise.
"Amira."
I jerked at the sound of my name. Julian was leaning against the station beside mine, grinning like he'd caught me in the act. His cape was half on his client, clippers dangling loose from his hand.
"You all zoned out over there."
I forced a laugh, shaking my head. "Just tired."
He raised a brow. "Tired don't make you stare into space like that. What's up?"
"Nothing," I lied, tucking a foil tighter than necessary.
Across the room, Jamal cackled loud enough to turn heads. "Leave her alone, J. She probably got a man on her mind. You know how Dream get when she's smitten."
I rolled my eyes, heat crawling up my neck. "Don't call me that in here."
"Second of all," Julian cut in, eyes narrowing like he was reading me, "You're all in her business."
I snapped the gloves off my hands, tossed them in the trash, and walked to the sink before either of them could push more.
They always wanted to dig, to poke until I cracked.
Normally, I let them. Normally, it was fun.
But today, I couldn't. Not with Brooks's face still carved into the back of my eyelids.
I rinsed a bowl, filled it, let the warm water steam against my skin. Focus, I told myself. Stay here. Stay present.
That's when the bell over the door chimed.
Every head turned, like always - it was instinct in this neighborhood to clock who walked in. And just like always, it was him.
Kian.
He didn't belong to this world of foils and smocks and gossip, but he made himself fit anyway. He leaned against the front desk like it had been made for him, dapping up Jamal, sliding Julian a nod. His presence filled the room without effort, all confidence and ease.
And of course, his eyes found me.
"What's up, Mira?" he said, voice low but carrying.
I smoothed my apron and shrugged, trying not to roll my eyes. "Working."
He crossed the shop slow, like he had all the time in the world. When he reached my station, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, grin lazy. "I brought y'all food."
That got everyone's attention. A white takeout bag swung from his hand, the smell of cheesesteaks and fries spilling into the room. Jamal cheered, Julian whistled, and half the shop was already crowding the counter.
Kian set the bag down, then angled his body back toward me. "Don't say I never look out."
"You didn't have to," I muttered, wiping my hands on a towel.
He shrugged. "I wanted to."
The client in my chair smiled knowingly, her foil-wrapped head turning just enough to catch us. "Thats your man?"
I laughed too quick. "No, ma'am."
Kian's grin widened, sharp and satisfied. "Yet."
Heat shot through my face, and I busied myself with gathering my tools. He always did this - dropped lines heavy enough to draw a reaction but light enough to pass off as jokes. Today, though, I wasn't in the mood.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice so only I could hear. "You good? You been quiet."
"I'm fine."
He studied me like he didn't believe it, but after a beat he let it go. That was one thing about Kian - he knew when to press and when to back off.
Still, his hand brushed my arm as he straightened. A touch light enough to feel like nothing, heavy enough to mean something.
"You hungry?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Not really."
He clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. "Lying. I'll save you a plate."
Then he was gone, moving back toward the group at the counter, laughing with Jamal like he hadn't just left my chest tight.
I sat back at my station, staring at the foil in my client's hair until it blurred.
Kian was a contradiction I couldn't shake.
Dope boy charm, street edges, but blood that tied him to suits and politics and money that stretched higher than this whole block.
The night before had proved it - his uncle, his world, the way he fit in that ballroom like he was born there.
And yet here he was, leaning against my chair, making the shop smell like grease and fries.
It was... cringe. No other word for it.
Because I didn't know which version of him was real.
And worse, I didn't know which one I wanted or if i even wanted any of it.
I checked the timer on my phone and forced my hands to keep moving taking my client to the shampoo bowl.
"Water too hot?" I asked my client, easing the sprayer lower.
"It's perfect, baby," she said, voice melting into the bowl.
I smiled because I was supposed to. My head, though, wandered straight back to last night's ballroom and then snapped to Kian laughing at the front like he paid the light bill with a grin.
Julian materialized at my elbow with a fry speared on a plastic fork. "Eat. You look pale."
"I'm Black, Julian."
"Pale for you," he corrected, I took the bite just to shut him up. Grease and salt hit my tongue, real enough to cut the fog.
He leaned in, dropping his voice. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
He watched me for a beat, then kissed his teeth. "Alright. I'll harass you tonight instead." He drifted back toward the barber side, calling to his client.
"He's not my boy, and you can fight him yourself."
Her mouth curved. "So defensive."
I turned the faucet off and wrapped a towel around my client's shoulders, guiding her back to my chair. She looked up at me in the mirror, soft and nosy. "He's handsome," she murmured, like we were sharing state secrets.
"Lots of handsome men are headaches," I said, sectioning her hair with a comb. "Ask me how I know."
She laughed and let it go. Bless her.
At the counter, Kian had the crew laughing, hands moving as he told some story that didn't need a punchline. He caught me watching and tipped his chin. That almost-smile again, the one that said he liked being seen. I rolled my eyes at the mirror, which only made my client chuckle.
"Men," she said.
"Men," I echoed, and we both snorted like a hymn.
I blow-dried in clean passes, the rhythm finally tugging some calm back into my body. Section, tension, chase with the brush. Hair obeyed when hands were steady. People didn't, but hair did.
Halfway through, Kian drifted back to my station, quieter now. He didn't touch me this time, just leaned against the wall, gaze steady.
"You sure you good?" he asked, so low I could pretend not to hear.
"Yeah just been busy," I said, voice even.
"Mm." He watched the pass of the brush, the slide of the dryer.
He didn't move, though. He stayed there, watching my hands like he always did when I got locked in.
It was the only time he ever went quiet: when work turned me into someone he couldn't joke his way inside of.
I finished the blowout, switched to the iron.
The hiss, the shimmer, the press into glass.
My client's reflection sat up a little taller with every pass.
"You a magician," she sighed.
"Just stubborn," I said. "And good at heat."
Kian's mouth ticked. I refused to look at him.
When I spun my client toward the mirror and handed her the little hand mirror for the back, she made that face people make when they surprise themselves.
I lived for that look. She dug in her purse, pressing extra bills into my palm like a secret.
"Book me for six weeks from now," she said, voice decisive.
"Done."
I walked her to the register, hugged her, sent her out into the sunlight with silk swinging. When I turned back, the shop had tilted-morning rush fading into late morning lull. Rina had her client under the dryer. Julian had his client howling at some story, clippers buzzing a steady bassline.
Kian reappeared at my station with a small plate and a water bottle, set them down like an offering. "So..." he said finally, eyes on my face instead of my mouth for once. "You ready for tomorrow?"
I blinked. "What's tomorrow?"
"Reservation you almost stood me up for," he said, dry. "Besos re-do. Nine." He held my gaze a second, waiting for me to flinch.
"I didn't stand you up," I said, biting the end off a fry. "I had a headache."
"Mm." He let that sit, then nodded like he'd decided to believe me and spare us both the argument. "You still free?"
I swallowed. The truth slid in like a challenge. "I'm
not sure Alina has a cold, so I might have to stay with her."
His shoulders eased the tiniest bit. "Cool."
We sat in a bubble for a minute-me chewing, him quiet, the shop muttering around us. He tapped a rhythm on the stool with one finger, then stopped, like he remembered he'd told himself to be patient today.
He leaned in a hair, voice softer. "If you wanna skip dinner and just... chill, we can do that. I'm not pressed."
You are, I thought, and somehow that didn't annoy me like it should have. It felt... honest.
"We'll see," I said, keeping it neutral.
He accepted the non-answer with a short nod, then pushed to his feet, the chair scraping. "I'ma head out. I gotta check on something."
Something. One of a hundred errands he never defined. I didn't ask. Another rule I wrote for myself.