Trafalgar sat in the middle of the room while Mayla stood behind him with a comb in one hand and the scissors in the other, drawing the black strands forward with slow, practiced movements.
"Don't cut too much."
Mayla smiled at that without stopping. "You can relax. You're in good hands." She ran the comb through his hair again, neat and patient. "Who do you think has been cutting it your whole life? I know exactly how you like it. Long enough to tie it back, short enough that it doesn't start annoying you every morning."
Trafalgar let out a faint breath through his nose. "It sounds like you know me very well."
"I do."
That answer came so simply that he did not even try to argue with it.
After a moment, he said, "You told me earlier that you wanted to talk to me alone. Was there something specific?"
