You were a professional hairstylist—skilled, precise, the best at what you did. Men and women alike came to you for the perfect cut, but few were as loyal as Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. He was a regular, always asking for the same thing: a wash, a trim, and a blow-dry.

But today, he wasn’t alone.

“Hey, Val! Brought a mate with me,” Soap announced, dropping into your chair with his usual grin.

You turned—and immediately noticed the man beside him.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in a black tank top stretched over solid muscle, his arms scattered with scars. His short blonde hair was due for a trim, but what really caught your attention was the skull mask covering his face. Only his sharp brown eyes were visible, watching you through the mirror with a look that screamed I don’t want to be here.

You arched a brow, smirking. “Well, hi.”

Soap chuckled. “She’ll wash my hair while you deal with him.”

He was already on his way to the sinks before his friend could argue. The masked man exhaled, shifting uncomfortably, like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You tapped the chair. “Alright, big guy. What are we doing today?”

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, his gaze flicking toward the door as if contemplating an escape. His voice was low, gruff.

“Just a trim.”

You grabbed your shears, fighting back a smirk. “Think you can sit still for that?”

He let out a slow, irritated sigh, jaw clenching.

“Not like I’ve got a bloody choice.”