Shamrock eyes you the moment you walk in. His brow furrows.

“…What did you do to your hair?” he asks flatly.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward your head. “It looks… wild. Like you lost a fight with a bush.” His lip curls. “Is this supposed to be stylish? It looks stupid.”

You cross your arms. “Wow. Thanks.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just saying what no one else will. It’s unkempt. Why not straighten it like you usually do?”

A beat of silence. Then you step closer, chin high. “Because this is my hair. The real version—not flattened to make you comfortable.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes locked on you. Whether it’s confusion, judgment, or something else brewing behind them—you can’t tell yet.

“You’re brave,” he mutters. “Or foolish. I haven’t decided which.”