The night was quieter than it should've been.
City noise buzzed beyond the walls—sirens, laughter, distant engines—but inside Iris's apartment, time felt suspended. The tea sat untouched between them on the coffee table, cooling in chipped mugs neither of them reached for. She was curled into the far corner of the couch, knees to her chest, wrapped in a blanket she barely remembered grabbing. Adam sat across from her, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on a crack in the tile like it might split open and explain everything.
Neither had spoken in ten minutes.
She finally broke the silence.
"Why?"
His gaze lifted, sharp. "Why what?"
"Why do you like me?"
The question landed with no warning. No buildup. Like a stone dropped into still water.
Adam didn't blink.
She swallowed. "You said you wouldn't be here if you didn't. So… why are you here?"
He studied her.
Not in that creepy way most people did—like they were trying to find the prettiest parts to compliment or the weakest parts to exploit. No, Adam looked at her like she was a lock he already knew how to pick. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wasn't deciding if he should answer, but how much to give her.
Finally, he spoke.
"Because you don't lie about how you feel."
Iris stared. "That's it?"
"No," he said. "That's the start."
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. "You're real. You care too much. You talk too fast when you're nervous. You apologize like it's a reflex. You feel everything like it's happening in color, while the rest of the world's stuck in grayscale."
Her throat tightened.
"And that doesn't scare you?" she asked.
"It should."
"Then why doesn't it?"
Adam's eyes didn't leave hers. "Because I've spent too long around people who feel nothing. And I forgot what real looked like."
Silence bloomed between them, heavy but not cold.
Then Iris whispered, "I'm a mess."
He tilted his head. "So am I."
She almost laughed. "You're… controlled. Scary. Perfect posture and sharp words."
"I'm dangerous," he said flatly. "That's not the same as stable."
Iris blinked. Her fingers curled tighter into the blanket.
And for the first time that night, she didn't feel like she had to shrink.
Not for him.
Not for the silence.
Not even for the fear still rattling in her chest.
Adam sat back, gaze unreadable. "You asked why I like you. I'll ask you something now."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Why haven't you asked what I really do?"
Her stomach dropped.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she said softly, "Because I already know it's something I'm not supposed to like."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
And for once, neither of them tried to fix the quiet.
They just sat with it.
Iris shifted slightly, unfolding from the blanket just enough to rest her feet on the floor. Her toes barely touched the worn rug. She wasn't trembling anymore, but she still felt like she was standing too close to a fire—drawn to it, even if she knew she'd burn.
"I don't want to ask," she said finally, "because if I hear the truth, I'll have to choose what to do with it."
Adam nodded once, like he respected that more than a hundred other questions she could've asked.
"You don't have to choose tonight," he said.
"I know."
"But you will."
Silence wrapped around them again—but this time, it wasn't fragile. It held.
Iris reached for her tea, now cold, and held it with both hands like it still had warmth to offer. "You don't scare me," she said, almost to herself.
Adam watched her carefully. "That's not a good thing."
She met his eyes. "Maybe not. But it's the truth."
His breath caught in his chest for just a second. Almost imperceptible. But she noticed.
He stood slowly, like he'd made a decision. Crossed the room. Knelt in front of her.
Not touching. Not demanding. Just close enough for her to feel his presence like gravity.
"You can still walk away," he said. "I won't follow."
Her throat tightened. "But will you disappear?"
His jaw tensed. "If that's what you need."
Iris looked at him—really looked. At the shadow under his eyes. The cut on his knuckle. The restraint threaded into every line of his body, like he was one wrong move away from shattering something invisible.
"I don't know what I need," she admitted. "But I know I don't want to lie to myself anymore."
Adam's voice dropped. "Then don't."
They stayed like that for a long moment. A breath apart.
Then—quietly, without fanfare—she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his.
Adam closed his eyes.