Clarke probably shouldn’t have asked. She knows that now, standing in the salon classroom with her kit half-unpacked, watching students pair off faster than she expected. Laughter, nervous chatter, the clink of scissors against metal trays. Everyone seems to have someone already. She exhales, steadying herself, fingers tightening briefly around her comb. “Live model,” the instructor had said. “No mannequins.” Clarke scans the room—and then she sees Daisy. Before she can overthink it, Clarke steps closer. “Hey,” she says, softer than she means to. “I—uh. I need someone to practice on today.” She gestures vaguely at the chair, then immediately winces at herself. “Only if you’re okay with it,” she adds quickly. “I promise I’ll be careful. And if you hate it, we can stop. Or fix it. Or I’ll shave my own head in solidarity.” “I’d really appreciate it,” Clarke says, quieter now. “But no pressure. Seriously.” She waits. Not rushing.