The neighbour’s son

The Trim

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy white curtains as April folded the last of her clothes into the top drawer. Her chestnut-brown hair, still damp from her shower, clung in dark ribbons down the back of her t-shirt. She caught her reflection in the mirror — soft face, bare without makeup, a slight flush still in her cheeks from the warmth of the shower.

She glanced out the window. Her mom was chatting with the neighbour again — a stylish woman with cropped silver hair and a bold red jumpsuit, laughing confidently over the white picket fence. But April’s eyes weren’t on her.

They were on him.

He was crouched beside the front garden bed, pulling weeds with gloved hands, a streak of dirt along one cheekbone. Shirtless. His torso was lean and lightly defined, skin golden from the summer sun. Tousled dark blond hair, a faint fade on the sides, and headphones slung carelessly around his neck. She didn’t know his name yet. But God, he looked older than most guys she knew. Maybe nineteen?

She pretended to busy herself folding socks, but she couldn’t stop watching the way his forearms flexed, the way his jaw clenched as he yanked up a stubborn root.

That was when her mom called out.

“April! Can you take your brother next door for his haircut, please?”

April blinked. “What?”

“Dominic’s appointment with the neighbor. She said her son’s doing it now. Her name’s Tess, and apparently he’s taken over the shop. Said he’s very good.”

April raised an eyebrow. Her son. She looked out the window again. He was standing now, stretching. Shirtless. Still casually beautiful.

“Why me?” she called back.

“Because he’s your brother. And because I asked,” her mother replied, tone final.

April sighed, tucked her hair into a long, low braid, and went downstairs.

Dominic dragged his feet the entire walk across the lawn. April didn’t blame him. He was awkward at the best of times — mop of shaggy brown hair falling in greasy sheets over his eyes, hoodie two sizes too big. Starting a strict boys’ school next week was going to eat him alive.

They stepped up onto the wraparound porch. April adjusted her white tank top, suddenly self-conscious about her bralessness beneath it. Before she could knock, the door swung open.

And there he was.

Up close, Chris was even more striking. A little scruff along his jaw. Faint scar through his left eyebrow. Black jeans. A tight charcoal t-shirt clinging to his chest. His cologne was faint but arresting — citrus and something darker, like clove or leather.

“You must be April and Dom,” he said, eyes flicking from Dominic to her. “Come in. I’ve got the shop set up downstairs.”

His voice was smooth — not too deep, but confident. April felt her breath catch slightly. She followed him into the cool house, down the creaky staircase into what used to be the basement.

It wasn’t a basement anymore.

It was a sleek, masculine barbershop. Black leather chairs. Industrial lighting. Minimalist steel-framed mirrors. One wall was covered in black-and-white photos — men in uniform, soldiers lined up for inspection, crew cuts and sharp fades. The scent of aftershave and talc hung in the air, clean and nostalgic.

Chris motioned Dominic toward the chair. “Let’s clean you up, man. School cut, right?”

Dominic barely nodded before slumping into the seat.

April lingered against the back wall, pretending to browse the photos, but her eyes kept drifting. The way Chris moved — precise, economical, effortless. He secured the maroon cape around Dominic’s neck and tore a strip of white tissue to tuck beneath the collar.

“You’re quiet,” he said over his shoulder to her.

April’s stomach flipped. “I’m just… watching.”

Chris glanced at her, smirking. “Hope that’s a good thing.”

He snapped on the clippers, and the low hum filled the room. April bit the inside of her cheek. It was strange — she’d never really watched a haircut before, but something about this felt intimate. Hypnotic. The way his hand pressed gently against the back of Dominic’s head, the controlled passes up the nape, hair falling in soft clumps.

Dominic winced a little.

“You’ll thank me later,” Chris murmured as he buzzed the sides down tight.

April shifted her weight, arms crossed, trying not to stare. God, those hands. Strong, steady, slow. He brushed stray hairs off Dominic’s neck with a practiced flick. Then the top came off — long, greasy bangs falling like petals.

When he was done, Dominic looked like a different kid. Still surly. But presentable.

Chris spun the chair toward the mirror. “There. Military clean.”

Dominic barely mumbled a thank you before pulling off the cape and darting upstairs.

April made a move to follow, but Chris blocked her with a smirk.

“Hold up. You’re not leaving with all that hair, are you?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Chris gave her a once-over. “I mean, your ends are dry as straw. Dead split halfway to the moon. Let me give you a trim — nothing drastic. Won’t take long.”

April hesitated. “I… I usually go to a salon.”

He tilted his head. “You scared of barbers?”

“No.” She said it too quickly.

“Then sit.” It wasn’t a question.

Something about his tone made her body buzz. She slid into the still-warm leather seat. Her braid draped over one shoulder. He came up behind her, fingers grazing the length of it as he unfastened the tie and let it spill down her back.

“You’ve got great hair,” he said softly. “Long. Heavy. Could be stunning if someone gave it a little shape.”

April didn’t reply. Her throat felt dry.

The cape came next — a heavier fabric than she was used to, deep burgundy and enveloping. Then the tissue at her neck. She exhaled shakily as his hands smoothed it under the collar.

“You alright?” he asked, standing close behind her now.

“Yeah. Just… not used to this.”

Chris leaned down, lips close to her ear. “That’s the fun part.”

She felt it everywhere — the heat in her cheeks, the tightness in her chest, the ache between her thighs.

Then came the wide-toothed comb. He worked through her hair gently, detangling with care. Then the first snip — a soft, final shkkk. A few inches at the ends. More symbolic than dramatic. But April felt each cut like a breath against bare skin.

“Still breathing?” he teased.

“Mhm.”

Chris stepped in front of her and adjusted the cape, eyes on hers. “Just a trim today?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked slightly.

“Shame.” He smirked, brushing a lock behind her ear. “You’d look fire with a sharp bob and a shaved nape. Clean. Confident.”

April’s heart thundered. “Not today.”

He nodded. “Next time, maybe.”

He returned to his work — trimming, layering, combing. The scent of his cologne surrounded her, intoxicating. Occasionally, his fingers brushed her jaw, her neck, and every time, her breath hitched.

The haircut lasted maybe ten minutes. But her body buzzed the entire time.

When he unfastened the cape, she was almost disappointed.

Chris fluffed the ends, admiring his work. “There. Healthier. Lighter.”

April stepped out of the chair, legs slightly unsteady. “Thanks.”

He walked her to the stairs. “You ever want something bolder…” he paused, smirking, “you know where to find me.”

She lay in bed that night, fingers tangled in her freshly trimmed hair, playing the moment on loop.

The brush of his hands. The weight of the cape. His voice at her ear.

Her thighs pressed together.

She didn’t know when exactly it would happen.

But she was going back.

The Bob

April stood outside the neighbor’s front porch, her fingers trembling slightly around her phone. She hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t called ahead. But she was here — standing on the same welcome mat, hair tied in a neat braid over one shoulder, heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in her chest.

Her jeans clung tighter than she remembered. The fitted black tee she’d picked hugged her waist and dipped just enough at the neckline to hint without trying too hard.

She hesitated.

Then knocked.

The door opened. There he was.

Chris.

This time, his t-shirt was charcoal again — tighter still — sleeves stretched across his biceps. His hair was damp from a recent shower, pushed back haphazardly. His grey eyes scanned her face and drifted down, then back up, locking on her lips.

“Hey,” he said, that small smirk curling again.

“Hey,” she replied, voice soft. “You free?”

His brow rose slightly. “Always. Come in.”

The house was quiet. No sign of his mother. No Dominic. Just them.

He led her down the same familiar staircase. The scent hit her again — clean steel, aftershave, something earthy and warm. The barbershop hadn’t changed. But she had. She could feel it in the way her body moved — slower, more aware. She wasn’t the same nervous girl from last week.

He gestured to the chair. “Back for a trim?”

She looked at him and paused. Her braid felt suddenly too heavy on her shoulder.

“I want the cut you mentioned.”

His eyes sharpened — just slightly — then softened with something else. Not surprise. Approval.

“The bob with the shaved nape?” he clarified, stepping toward her, voice low.

She nodded. “Yeah. That.”

He didn’t speak. He simply reached for the braid, loosened the tie, and let the thick chestnut waves fall free. He ran his fingers through it slowly, deliberately, until it cascaded like silk down her back.

Then he picked up the cape.

April turned and lowered herself into the red leather chair. The air shifted. The familiar snap of fabric. The soft swirl as the cape engulfed her body. Her heart raced. She was already warm beneath it, trapped in its smooth maroon folds.

Chris didn’t rush. He moved around her slowly, peeling open a fresh strip of neck tissue and wrapping it delicately around her throat. The tension there was electric. Her breath caught as he fastened the cape snug against it.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice velvet.

“Yes,” she whispered.

The chair rose with a rhythmic pump of his foot. Her hands gripped the armrests involuntarily. No mirror. Just trust.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured behind her. “Your face… it’s made for strong lines. For structure.”

He combed through her thick brown hair, gathering it at the base, letting it spill over her shoulder. Then, without a countdown, he reached for the shears.

Shkkk.

The first cut was near her collarbone. Heavy weight dropped onto the cape. She gasped softly, not from pain — but from the sound. From the reality of it.

Shkkk. Shkkk.

Long thick sections rained around her, landing in her lap. He moved with fluid control, circling her slowly, each pass with the scissors reshaping her silhouette. Her head dipped obediently as he adjusted it. The blunt jaw-length cut began to take form.

But it wasn’t done.

The comb grazed up the back of her neck.

Then — the click.

The clippers buzzed to life.

Her eyes widened.

“Head down for me.”

She complied.

The second the clippers touched the nape of her neck — something surged.

It was as if her spine caught fire. A jolt of sensation shot down, deep, visceral. The vibration of the clippers buzzed against her most sensitive nerves, and her breath hitched sharply.

The hum of the motor. The heat of his fingers spreading the skin gently. The pass of the metal teeth clearing a path through her soft downy hair.

Another pass. Slower. Closer.

She bit her lip, hard.

A third pass — then a firm hand on her shoulder to steady her — and she let go.

It wasn’t a scream. It was breath. A full-bodied, shaking exhale that left her trembling, chest heaving beneath the cape. Her toes curled in her sneakers. Her thighs clenched tightly together under the maroon fabric.

Chris paused, sensing it.

His hand smoothed gently over her freshly clipped nape.

“You alright?” he asked, voice husky.

April could barely speak. “Y-Yeah…”

She felt dizzy. Alive. Her skin buzzed with awareness, nipples hardened beneath her shirt. She had never felt so exposed and powerful at the same time.

He switched off the clippers. The silence was thick, intimate. Sacred.

Then came the refining — the comb and scissors dancing along her cheekbones, the back blending into the fade. His fingertips traced each curve, each angle. Every touch felt like heat against bare skin.

When he stepped in front of her and gently tilted her chin up, their eyes locked.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

He unsnapped the cape slowly, dusted loose hairs from her neck, and pulled it away with a slow, practiced flick.

She stood, shaky on her feet.

Chris didn’t step back.

Instead, he placed his hand lightly under her chin and lifted her face. He stared at her freshly cut hair, her flushed cheeks, her trembling lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

April didn’t speak. She simply surged forward.

Their mouths crashed together — hungry, aching, fierce. His hands tangled in her short hair, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him into her, gasping into his mouth as the kiss deepened, deepened, deepened—

She felt her back hit the cool steel counter behind the chair, his hands already on her waist, lifting her slightly, lips never breaking. The transformation wasn’t over — it had just begun.

Surrender

Chris’s hands were everywhere — on her waist, her back, threading through her freshly cut hair. April’s breath came fast and shallow between kisses, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. She was pressed against the counter, heart thundering in her chest as his hips leaned into hers.

Her head was spinning.

She had never felt this—wanted—this intensely. Her body hummed from the inside out, still lit from the haircut, the clippers’ aftershock lingering like a phantom touch on her nape. And now this. His tongue sliding against hers, one hand gripping her thigh and lifting—

“Chris,” she gasped as her hips ground instinctively against him, “upstairs…”

He paused, breathing hard, forehead against hers. “You sure?”

She nodded, unable to say anything more. Her lips were parted, her pupils wide, chest rising and falling beneath the snug cotton of her tee.

He scooped her effortlessly into his arms. She let out a small yelp, laughing breathlessly as her legs wrapped around his waist. Her head dropped to his shoulder, face buried in the curve of his neck, breathing in his scent — salt and spice and fresh shampoo. He took the stairs two at a time.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

Soft light filtered in from the blinds. The bed was unmade — charcoal sheets, rumpled from sleep. Chris set her down gently, but his hands didn’t leave her. They traced up beneath her shirt, thumbs grazing the soft skin just below her ribs. Her breath hitched again.

“Take it off,” he murmured.

She pulled the shirt over her head in one motion, her skin flushed and exposed. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Chris inhaled sharply, stepping back to look at her — her new jaw-length bob framing her flushed cheeks, collarbones rising with every breath, the delicate curve of her breasts tipped with firm, dusky nipples.

“Jesus, April…” he breathed, voice rough.

She reached for him now, lifting his shirt off. His torso was lean, toned — not gym-chiseled, but real. His skin was warm beneath her palms, his breath catching as her fingers brushed down his chest and paused at his waistband.

Chris kissed her again, harder this time — need behind every movement. Their jeans were off in tangled moments, her panties peeled down her thighs, his boxers kicked to the floor. Every motion was rushed and burning and full of hunger they couldn’t hide anymore.

He pushed her back onto the bed, kneeling between her legs, eyes drinking her in. April’s fingers trembled against the sheets, legs slightly open. She wasn’t shy anymore — she felt bold, charged, wanted.

Chris leaned over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding slowly between her thighs.

She arched into him, gasping when his fingers parted her folds, warm and slick and ready. He stroked her gently, teasing, circling her clit with maddening patience.

“God, you’re soaked,” he murmured.

April whimpered, biting her lip.

Then he was inside her — slow, deliberate. Her breath left her in a sharp gasp as she stretched around him, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, back arching as he filled her inch by inch.

“Chris…”

He moaned softly against her neck. “You feel incredible.”

He started to move — slow at first, rocking deep into her. Every thrust was deliberate, controlled, angled to hit every perfect spot. Her legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locked. Her hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as pleasure bloomed inside her, hot and pulsing.

Their bodies moved in sync — hips grinding, mouths crashing again and again. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, along with their breathless moans and whispered names.

Her orgasm crept up fast and sudden. The earlier clippers, the thrill of surrender, the sensation of being touched and wanted — it all exploded at once. Her muscles tightened around him, her back arched off the bed.

“Oh my God,” she cried, legs shaking.

Chris cursed low, gripping her thighs tighter as he slammed into her harder now, chasing his own release. His rhythm broke as he buried himself deep and let out a raw, low moan — spilling inside her, holding her close through every throb, every breath.

They lay together afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat, her head resting on his chest. His fingers lazily toyed with the freshly shaved nape of her neck, drawing soft circles that still made her shiver.

She smiled, eyes closed.

“I think,” she whispered, “you just made me love haircuts.”

Chris laughed, low and warm. “Next time, we go even shorter.”

April tilted her head up, a flush in her cheeks, her lips brushing his jaw. “I might let you.”

He grinned. “Might?”

She bit his shoulder playfully. “Only if you promise to fuck me like that again.”

He rolled her on top of him. “Deal.”