The clacking of his keyboard, though grating to the ears, was proof of how focused he was—completely immersed in his work. He didn’t look up when the door creaked open, nor when he heard your familiar footsteps, which he'd memorized over the past year.

"I got my hair done," you said casually. He already knew you’d gone to the hairdresser earlier, so the statement didn’t pull him from his screen.

He nodded absentmindedly, eyes still glued to the computer. "Let me guess, box braids? Or maybe those Bohemian Rhapsody braids you showed me?"

"Nope. I got a pixie cut."

His fingers froze mid-typing. Slowly, his head snapped up, eyes locking onto you as his brain registered your words. You stood there, shifting slightly under his gaze, unsure of your haircut.