“You don’t fall in love in this life. You stumble into it, scared and suspicious, like checking a locked door twice before you open it.”


I met him on a Tuesday.


It was slow that afternoon—no walk-ins, no appointments. I was cleaning my station, humming along to an old Brandy song, when Dee popped her head in from the front desk.


“Hey, Nell,” she said. “There’s a walk-in askin’ for a simple buff and shape. Said he doesn’t mind waiting.”


“A man?” I blinked. “Like… a real one?”


Dee grinned. “Real enough. Not like one of your regulars.”


I rolled my eyes but told her to send him back. I expected another smooth talker looking for attention, or worse—someone who recognized me from before.


But when he stepped through the curtain, I froze.


Tall. Dark skin. Clean fade. Simple hoodie and jeans. No chain. No flash. Just a soft smile and quiet energy.


“Hey,” he said. “Name’s Elijah. I’m… uh… here for the shape-up. Never done this before.”


I nodded, unsure why my throat felt tight. “You ever been to a salon before?”


“Only with my little sister. She dragged me in once. I was twelve. Got glitter on my Air Forces.”


I laughed. For real this time.


He smiled like he’d earned something.


Elijah sat across from me, hands outstretched on the towel. His fingers were scarred, like he worked with them. Mechanic maybe? Artist? I didn’t ask. Not yet.


“So, what made you come in today?” I asked, filing his nails gently.


He shrugged. “Been trying to do more for myself lately. Little things. Self-care, I guess. My therapist said it’d help.”


Therapist? That word stopped me for a second. Most men in my life didn’t believe in healing. Just hiding.


“You actually go?” I asked.


“Every week,” he said. “Trying to be better. For myself. For my niece. She lives with me now.”


The wall I didn’t know I’d built twitched a little.


By the time I finished, we’d talked about music, childhoods, favorite breakfasts, and whether pineapple belonged on pizza. He made me laugh. I mean really laugh. The kind that lives in your chest.


“Can I book you again?” he asked, standing up. “You got a soft touch.”


I handed him a card. “Only if you show up on time.”


“Bet.”


He paused at the curtain.


“Oh—and Nell?”


“Yeah?”


“That smile you got… you should wear it more.”


That night, I didn’t check my phone as obsessively. Didn’t reread Marcus’s note. Didn’t flinch at the shadows.


Instead, I stared at my notebook and wrote something new.


Step 6: Let someone see the real you—if they earn it.


I didn’t know what Elijah would become. A friend. A mistake. A test.


But for the first time in a long time, I felt seen—not for what I’d done, but for who I might still be.