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“Okay,” he says slowly, waiting for the rest.
I keep my attention on my plate, nudging a piece of chicken around with my fork.
“When I first met you, you had dreads,” I say. “Then you cut them off. Your hair grew back, and you started wearing braids when you got married.”
Tristan goes still.
“You looked hella sexy with them,” I add, because apparently I’ve decided humiliation is tonight’s main course. “Like… annoyingly sexy. Your cornrows were neat and fresh. Very distracting.”
“Maksim.”
“What?” I look at him innocently. “It’s a compliment. You should accept it with grace.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me in that quiet way that makes me want to talk faster.
“So I asked my friend Bianca to teach me how to braid. Her mum owns a braiding salon. Bianca thought it was hilarious, obviously, but she taught me.”
“You learned because of my hair?”
“No.” I say it too quickly. “I learned because I was bored.”
His brows lift.
“Fine,” I say, pointing my fork at him. “I learned because of your hair. But it was not weird at the time. It was aspirational.”
“Aspirational?”
“I was delusional,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
His expression changes again. Softens in a way I wish it wouldn’t. I laugh once, but it comes out thin.
“It took me almost six months to get good. Six months of Bianca yelling at me because I kept pulling too tight, or making the parts uneven, or getting distracted halfway through. I practiced on mannequin heads. I had a whole system.”
Tristan is staring at me now.
Not amused.
Dumbfounded.
“I thought one day you’d be mine,” I continue, because if I’m going to say it, I may as well jump off the cliff properly. “And I was going to braid your hair all the time. Fresh cornrows whenever you wanted. I even figured out which styles would suit you best.”
The fire snaps between us. I finally look at him, then immediately regret it.
His face is open in a way I’m not ready for. No teasing. No smug little smile. Just Tristan looking at me like I’ve handed him something fragile without meaning to.
“So,” I say quickly, leaning back in my chair. “Imagine my betrayal when you disappeared after our one-night stand, then came back into my life with a low taper fade.”
For a second, Tristan says nothing.
He just stares at me across the fire, the flames casting shifting shadows over his face. Then, quietly, almost like he’s tasting the words.
“You wanted to braid my hair.”
I let out a short, defensive laugh and stab a piece of roasted corn like it personally offended me. “I wanted a project. You happened to have excellent hair potential. Don’t make it weird.”
“Maksim.”
“Oh, don’t say my name like that,” I mutter, shoving a roasted corn into my mouth. “It was embarrassing. I used to have this huge, pathetic crush on you, okay? So yeah, I learned how to do braids. Sue me. You’re supposed to laugh and call me insane so we can both pretend I didn’t just admit that out loud.”
