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“Caleeeeeeeb,” you whine desperately at his retreating form.
He turns around to face you, his sports bag thrown over his shoulder, already halfway down the front path.
“You can’t just leave me hanging. You know tomorrow is picture day.”
“I’m sorry, pipsqueak, I really am.” He shifts the strap higher on his shoulder. “But you know I don’t have a choice. I can’t leave my teammates without a captain for a game as big as this.”
“You’re the worst brother ever.”
His face crumples.
“Please don’t say that… you don’t mean it, right?”
You look to the side, arms crossed, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes. You don’t answer.
From the car, Grandma Josephine leans out the window. “Caleb! We’re going to be late!”
“Look, don’t worry,” he rushes on. “I’ll be sure to win this game quickly and come back tonight to finish your braids.”
“Don’t lie to me. You know that’s impossible. Your game is in Chansia City. By the time it’s over it’ll probably be like ten p.m. And you know Grandma doesn’t like driving at night, so you won’t be back before tomorrow.”
“I… I didn’t think about that.”
“What am I supposed to do?” you whine, frustration tightening your throat.
“Hey, you know how to braid just as well as I do. It’ll probably take you a bit more time, but I’m sure it’ll turn out great.”
“I don’t have time! I need to study for my math exam, it’s worth a lot. I can’t spend the evening doing my hair.”
“Caleb!” Grandma Josephine calls again, more impatient this time.
“Coming!” He glances back at the car, then at you. “I’ll make it up to you, pipsqueak. I promise.”
“So you won’t stay? Caleb, I’ll look like a mess for my picture.”
“No, you won’t. You always look pretty.” He gestures vaguely at your half-done hair. “How about this — you undo the braids we already did in the back and do a slick-back. You’ll look perfect.”
More like you’ll look like an egg, but you don’t say that. Resigned, you sigh. “Fine.”
“Okay, I really gotta go now.”
“Have a nice game.” You start to turn around, but Caleb catches you by the arm.
“Wait a sec. You’re gonna let me leave without our good luck handshake? Do you wish for my team to lose?” He presses a hand dramatically to his chest.
That earns a small smile. “No. Of course not.”
You go through the familiar motions — clap, snap, spin — and it ends the way it always does, with you leaning up to press a quick peck to his cheek. He grins, ruffles your hair, and jogs toward the car where Grandma Josephine is already shaking her head.
You step onto the porch to see them off — and nearly jump when you notice someone standing near the edge of your driveway.
Zayne.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
“I wanted to see if you guys were free to hang out.” He takes a small step back, hands in his pockets, looking oddly… flustered.
“How long have you been standing there?”
He winces. “Long enough to know about your problem. I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to overhear, but your exchange felt tense and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
The car pulls out of the driveway, Caleb visibly watching the two of you through the windshield. You wave until it turns the corner.
“It doesn’t matter,” you mumble.
Then you realize.
You’re standing outside in front of Zayne — your neighbor, your best friend, and unfortunately the person who you've got a very big crush on — in your pajamas. Your hair is half blow-dried, half braided, and sticking out in every possible direction.
You must look insane.
“Uh—” you turn quickly. “Do you want to come in?”
He nods, and you lead him inside out of habit. Before you can even consider sprinting to your room to change, he sits down on the living room couch, elbows on his knees.
“I could help you, you know,” he says.
You pause. “Help me?”
“Yeah.” He glances at your hair, then back at your face. “With your braids.”
You blink.
“You… can braid?”
Zayne hesitates, then shrugs slightly. “I’ve watched Caleb do it. A lot. Three strands, right one goes to the center, then left one to the center. It didn’t look difficult.”
You stare at him.
“That’s… normal braids,” you say slowly. “These aren’t normal braids. They’re butterfly braids.”
His brows draw together, curiosity immediately replacing the uncertainty. “Butterfly… braids?”
“Yeah. It’s different.” You pull your phone from your pocket and scroll quickly before holding it out to him. “This is what it’s supposed to look like.”
He leans closer to look. His shoulder almost brushes yours. On the screen, the style is neat, intricate, loops softly pulled from the braids to give that textured, airy look.
Zayne studies the photo with surprising seriousness, like he’s memorizing it. “So… it’s still three strands,” he murmurs, half to himself. “But you pull sections outward… to create volume.”
You snort softly. “It’s not that simple.”
He looks up at you, calm and determined. “Let me try.”
“You don’t even know how—”
“I can learn.”
Something in the way he says it makes your protest die in your throat.
Before you can respond, he’s already pulling his phone out, sitting on the couch, typing. Within seconds, a video starts playing. Then another. And another.
You hover awkwardly for a moment. “You’re… seriously watching tutorials?”
He nods without looking up. “You said you need to study. Do that. I’ll figure it out.”
You hesitate, then slowly gather your books and sit cross-legged on the carpet in front of the coffee table. You try to focus on your math notes, but it’s… difficult.
Behind you, Zayne’s voice is low as he rewinds a clip. The faint sound of YouTube tutorials fills the room. Occasionally, he pauses, tilts his head, watches again. He’s completely absorbed.
After about fifteen minutes, he taps your shoulder lightly.
“Can I try one?”
You turn around, skeptical. “Already?”
“I think I understand.”
You shift so your back faces him, heart beating a little faster. He moves from the couch edge, fingers hovering near your hair for a second — like he’s asking permission without words.
“Okay,” you murmur.
He starts carefully, separating a section. His movements are cautious but steady. His fingers are warm, surprisingly gentle. He braids slowly, concentrating.
When he finishes, you lean forward and grab your phone to check the camera.
“It’s…” you pause. “…a little lopsided.”
Zayne leans to look, frowning slightly. “The tension wasn’t even.”
“It’s not surgery, you know.”
“It’s precise work,” he replies simply.
You laugh.
“Let me try again.”
The second attempt is better. The loops are more even, the braid tighter.
Your eyes widen. “Wait… that’s actually good.”
He doesn’t smile, but you catch the faintest hint of satisfaction in his expression.
“Third time,” he says.
This time, his movements are smoother. Confident. When he finishes, you check again — and your jaw drops.
“Zayne.”
He leans closer. “Is it acceptable?”
“It’s perfect.”
You turn toward him fully, excitement bubbling back into your chest for the first time since Caleb left. “Can you do the rest?”
He nods once.
You settle cross-legged on the carpet again, and he sits on the couch behind you. Slowly, carefully, he works through your hair section by section. The room fills with soft conversation, quiet laughter when he accidentally tugs too hard, small breaks where you both grab snacks from the kitchen.
Time passes without either of you noticing. The sun dips lower. Your hair gradually transforms. By the time he finishes the last braid, it’s been hours.
You rush to the mirror — and freeze.
It’s perfect.
Better than you imagined. Neat, full, symmetrical. Exactly like the picture.
“Oh my God— Zayne!” you turn, beaming.
He looks suddenly nervous. “Is it okay?”
Instead of answering, you practically launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
“Thank you thank you thank you!”
He stiffens in surprise, then slowly relaxes, face turning bright red as he awkwardly returns the hug.
“I’m glad… you like it,” he murmurs.
Your cheek is still pressed to his shoulder when you realize how close you are.
And judging by how warm his ears feel… he’s realized it too.
You pull back quickly. “Sorry— I just— I’m really happy.”
“It’s okay,” he says, voice quiet.
He doesn’t move away immediately though. His gaze lingers on your face, then shifts slightly, studying the braids now framing it. His ears are still tinted pink.
“You look… really nice. This hairstyle suits you,” he adds.
Your stomach flips. “You’re biased. You did them.”
“That’s not why.”
The sincerity in his tone makes you look away first.
To fill the sudden silence, you grab your phone. “Wait, I need to see the back properly.” You open the camera, twisting around awkwardly, trying to angle it.
Zayne watches you struggle for about two seconds before gently reaching out. “Here. I’ll take it.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay.”
You hand him the phone and sit up straighter. He stands, circling slightly so he’s behind you, carefully framing the shot like it’s something important. He takes one photo, then another.
“Turn a little,” he murmurs.
You do, trying not to think about how soft his voice sounds this close.
He lowers the phone and hands it back. “These should show it.”
You scroll through them — and grin again. “They look so good.”
He nods, clearly relieved.
On impulse, you flip the camera. “Wait, one together.”
His eyes widen. “Together?”
“Yeah. You deserve credit.”
Before he can object, you scoot closer, shoulder brushing his. You hold the phone out. He stiffens slightly, but doesn’t pull away. The camera clicks. Neither of you moves right away. The living room is quiet now, the late evening light filtering through the curtains. Your shoulder is still touching his, and somehow neither of you seems eager to fix that.
You glance at the photo.
“It’s cute,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He clears his throat and stands up. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”
“Oh.” You nod, trying not to sound disappointed. “Yeah. Right.”
He walks you to the door. Before stepping out, he hesitates.
“Good luck on your math exam tomorrow.”
You smile. "Thank you. Again." For fixing my braids. For fixing my mood. The words sit at the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say them.
The silence stretches for a second too long.
Before you can rethink it, you step forward onto your toes and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s nothing like the one you give Caleb.
Your heart slams against your ribs the moment you do it. Heat rushes to your face, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close you are — of how still he’s gone.
You pull back immediately, eyes wide, and mumble, “Goodnight!”
Then you turn and slip inside before your brain can catch up with your actions, shutting the door behind you.
You lean against it, palms flat against the wood, heart racing.
Outside, Zayne stands frozen on the porch, staring at the closed door like he’s trying to process what just happened. His hand slowly rises to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips brushed.
He stays there for a moment longer than necessary before finally walking home — still a little dazed.