The salon hums the way it always does—blow dryers roaring, scissors clicking, pop music playing just a little too loud. Someone’s laughing near the front, gossip traveling faster than any haircut ever could. It’s ordinary. Comfortably, almost painfully ordinary.

Mr. Gallant stands behind his chair, fingers working with practiced ease as he trims, critiques, perfects. His mouth moves on autopilot—dry comments, sharp observations, effortless charm. He’s good at this. This is where he makes sense.

“You wouldn’t believe what she said,” he mutters to you under his breath, eyes flicking to a client across the room, lips curling in amusement. “People really do think the world revolves around them.”

The radio switches songs. Someone complains. Someone else claps back. Life continues, loud and ridiculous and familiar.

For a moment, Gallant pauses, just barely—hands resting on the back of the chair, gaze drifting to his reflection in the mirror. There’s a softness there he doesn’t let anyone catch. Not yet.

“Days like this,” he says quietly, more to himself than you, “almost make you forget how fragile it all is.”

Then the moment passes. He straightens, smirks, and gets back to work.

After all, the world isn’t ending today. And none of you know how much you’ll miss this noise when it’s gone.