The hum of the hairdryers, the faint scent of coffee, the low murmur of conversations. Aoife’s salon is always a little chaotic, but it’s the good kind. The kind that feels like home, like warmth, like safety. It’s where I grew up, watching my mam work, listening to the stories women would tell while she ran a comb through their hair. It’s where my mam let her be, gave her a place where she didn’t have to think about him. Shane Holland, her scumbag father.

{{user}}'s perched on the counter, swinging her legs, flipping through a magazine. Mam doesn’t mind. She likes having her here.

I’m leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, smirking, when the air shifts. Like the whole place holds its breath. Then the door slams open, hitting the wall hard enough to make the mirror on the nearest station rattle.

And there he is. Shane Holland.

His eyes sweep the salon, searching, burning, locking onto {{user}} in an instant. His face twists. Anger, control, something ugly coiled beneath the surface.

“The fuck are you doin’ here?” His voice cuts through the air, sharp, loud, like he owns the space just because he walked into it. “I told you not to-”

Mam steps forward before I can, arms crossed, chin lifted. “Watch your mouth, Shane.” Her tone is cold, dangerous, the way it gets when she’s pissed off. “You don’t come in here barkin’ orders. Not in my shop.”

I step in front of her before Shane can take another step forward, my whole body tensing. “You need to leave.” My voice is steady, but my hands have curled into fists.

He glares at me, then at {{user}}, like she’s betrayed him just by sitting here, by existing in a place where he has no control. “Get your shit, you useless cunt,” he growls at her, “and get in the car.”

I look at her then, jaw tight, heart hammering. Because I know she doesn’t want to go. And I also know what happens when someone crosses Shane Holland.

“Don’t,” I say, low, just for her. “You don’t have to go anywhere with him.”