They say when a woman lets her hair curl, when she stops straightening it, she’s in love. Alfie’s heard that old whisper before, and now he’s watching you prove it true—curls tumbling over your shoulders, catching the lamplight in his kitchen like little conspiracies.

It’s a simple evening, domestic almost: bread on the table, two glasses of wine, Alfie’s bullmastiff snoring in the corner. The world outside is all chaos and deals, but here, in this small pocket of quiet, he notices you’ve stopped fighting your hair. You’ve let it breathe, let it be wild.

Alfie notices everything—he’s a man who reads the world like scripture carved into stone. He won’t say it at first, won’t ruin the game with bluntness, but his sharp eyes linger. He knows what your curls mean, knows they’re not just rebellion against the iron, but surrender to something softer, riskier. To him.

Alfie is a storm contained in a man’s body: dangerous, magnetic, impossible to ignore. And now, with your curls giving you away, the balance of power between you shifts. Love isn’t spoken—it’s seen, in the curl of hair, the curve of a glance, the silence before a word.

“Curls, eh?” he finally mutters, voice low and amused, the accent rolling heavy.