୧ 𝓘 ＮＩＧＯ ＭＡＲＴＩＮＥＺ
THE FIRST TIME HE WALKED INTO YOUR SHOP, YOU BARELY LOOKED UP. just another client. another appointment. your hands were busy with a blow dryer, the scent of hairspray hanging heavy in the air. he gave his name at the desk, voice deep but polite, and when you finally glanced over, you realized you’d seen him before — not here, but on tv, celebrated under stadium lights.
you draped the cape over him, fingers brushing the curve of his neck. he flinched almost imperceptibly, and you filed it away as nerves. most men in your chair relaxed. he didn’t. he held himself like a coiled spring — eyes on you in the mirror, watching your every move like he was afraid to blink and miss something.
he was quiet at first. just small talk. training schedules. the weather. but every time he came back, the conversations stretched a little longer, like he was testing how much space he was allowed to take in your world.
you noticed the small things before you noticed him. the way he always booked the last slot of the day. how he never rushed out the door once you were done. how his smile in the mirror wasn’t the same one he gave the cameras.
tonight, the shop was empty except for the two of you. rain pressed against the glass, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cologne. your scissors moved slow, almost deliberate, as he sat there, hands resting on his thighs, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t here for the haircut anymore.
“you trust me?” you asked, comb gliding through his hair. he met your eyes in the mirror, that unreadable look settling in again.
“with more than my hair,” he said, and you swore the air shifted.
your hand paused — not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel your own pulse in your fingertips.
@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒