“That’s progress.” I smooth his hair back, check the length on both sides. “Now. Bingo square.”
“Which one?”
“Your choice.” I return to cutting, working on blending the layers. “Pick something you’re willing to do right now, in this chair, while I have you trapped.”
He’s quiet for long enough that I start to wonder if he’s going to refuse. Then:
“Compliment someone without sarcasm. I tried last night. With Virg. I don’t think I did that great of a job.”
My scissors pause mid-snip. “So you want to try again?”
“You said complete one. That’s one I can complete here.”
“It’s also the one that requires you to compliment me.”
“Yes.”
The air between us shifts. Charges. I force myself to keep working, to maintain the pretense of normalcy even though my heart is suddenly pounding against my ribs.
“Okay.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Go ahead.”
He doesn’t speak immediately. I finish the current section, move to the next, hyper-aware of every second that passes.
“You’re patient,” he says finally.
I wait. That can’t be it.
“You’ve been patient with me for years. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was being—” He stops, starts again. “You never gave up. You never decided I was too difficult. You just... kept showing up.”
Don’t react. Don’t make this bigger than it is.
My throat tightens. I’ve been showing up for years, telling myself it was friendship, telling myself I was fine with proximity and patience and never asking for more.
I might have been lying.
My hands still against his hair.
“That’s not—” He clears his throat. “That’s not nothing. It’s not nothing to have someone who keeps showing up. It’s a lot, Gisele.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept locked away since I was old enough to understand that my father chose leaving over staying. I blink hard. Force myself to stay present, stay professional. This isn’t about me. This is about him.
Except it’s never just been about him, has it?
Somewhere that’s been waiting for years to hear someone say that my presence matters, that I’m not just the backup plan, not just the safe option.
“Bennett.”
“Don’t make it weird.” His jaw tightens. “You said without sarcasm. That was without sarcasm.”
“I know.” I take a breath. Resume cutting. “Thank you.”
We’re both quiet for a while after that. I finish the cut, reach for my trimmer to shape his beard. The buzz of the tool fills the silence, gives us both something to focus on that isn’t the charged atmosphere we’ve created.
“Tilt your chin up.”
He does. The line of his throat is exposed, vulnerable, and I think about what I said earlier—about trust and sharp objects and the surrender required to let someone this close. I could press my thumb to the hollow at the base of his throat and feel his pulse. Could map the line of his jaw with my fingers, trace the scar above his eyebrow, touch all the places he keeps guarded.
“You’re doing well,” I say quietly.
