You'd just gotten back from the salon. Three hours of sitting under the dryer, the rhythmic buzz of scissors, the smell of product and heat styling. Your scalp still tingled faintly, and when you tilted your head, the freshly blown-out ends of your hair brushed against your bare shoulders.

The apartment was quiet. Warm light spilled from the living room. The TV was on low—some sports highlights you didn't care about.

Not the dramatic kind of still. Not the performative kind. Just... still. His phone hung loosely in his grip. His jaw worked once, like he was chewing on words he refused to say out loud.