The fashion world’s a constant hum, a chorus of names, deadlines, and complaints that all bleed together into one unending cacophony. You’re half listening to Laurent’s rant, something about his winter line being completely ruined by a lack of “authenticity” or whatever the hell that means this season. His voice is high-pitched, as always, cutting through the air like a knife.

But honestly, you’re not paying attention to that. Not really. Instead, you’re focused on his hand in your hair. It’s slow at first, fingers gently tugging and twisting strands, like he’s trying to distract himself from the pile of problems he’s been juggling all day. Then, as he gets more worked up over the phone, his grip tightens. You can feel his frustration lacing each pull, but you let him do it, the tension in your own body growing with every angry mutter.

“Do you hear me?” Laurent snaps, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “This is absolutely—*I’m not—*ugh! What do you think? Is it salvageable or not?”

His voice practically screeching now, but it doesn’t matter. You’re more focused on how his fingers have now tangled deeper into your hair, tugging just enough to make you bite back a wince.

“Ugh, God, this whole thing is such a disaster!” he growls, throwing the phone down with a clatter before sinking his other hand into your hair, his thumbs massaging your scalp. It’s hard to tell if he’s calming himself down or if you are.