The shop was still dark when Jamie arrived. He didn't even bother knocking—just let himself in with the spare key, juggling a grocery bag and his usual iced coffee like it was any other morning.
Then he saw her.
Iris was sitting on the floor, back against the counter, knees pulled up to her chest beneath a blanket that looked like it had become part of her. Her face was blotchy, skin pale beneath the faint morning light creeping through the blinds. Her eyes weren't crying anymore, but they looked bruised in a way makeup couldn't cover.
Jamie froze mid-step.
"Okay," he said slowly, voice softer than usual. "Who died?"
She didn't laugh.
Not even a twitch.
He set the grocery bag down gently and lowered himself to the floor beside her, legs crisscrossed, coffee abandoned.
"Talk to me," he said, nudging her foot with his. "Please."
Iris didn't look at him. She was still staring at her hands, twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers like she was unraveling herself one thread at a time. The silence stretched until it felt like another person in the room.
Then, barely audible: "I think I slept with him."
Jamie blinked. "You… think?"
She nodded once, too fast. Then again. "I don't remember."
His face changed—not shock, not anger, but something protective, something that curled around him like armor. He didn't speak right away. Just watched her, waiting.
"I woke up in his shirt," she said. Her voice was frayed. "My pants were gone. He was... there. Beside me. And I had marks. Bite marks. Scratches. Nothing awful. But... enough to know it wasn't just sleep."
Jamie's breath caught. "Oh my god. Iris—did he—?"
"No," she said, fast. "No, I don't think so."
"You don't think?"
"I remember little things," she continued, like she had to say it out loud to make sense of it. "I remember the chicken. The dumb movie we laughed at. I remember the way the rug felt. I said it felt like clouds. I remember... I remember pulling him in. Crying. He said I did. That I didn't want to be alone."
Her voice cracked.
"But I don't remember saying yes."
Jamie's eyes softened, but the lines around his mouth were tense. "Did he force you?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. I don't think so. I think I wanted it. I think I asked him to stay. I just… don't remember doing it. I don't remember any of the parts that mattered."
Her chest caved inward, like the words had pulled something out of her she hadn't realized was still there.
Jamie reached for her hand. She didn't flinch. She let him take it.
"I lost it," she whispered.
"Lost what?"
"My virginity," she said, barely more than air. "I lost it to someone I barely know. And I didn't even get to remember it. That part of me is just… gone."
Jamie squeezed her hand. His thumb brushed over hers, slow and steady. "You didn't lose anything," he said. "You're still you."
"I didn't even get to choose how I felt about it," she whispered. "No candles. No nerves. No asking. No music. Just... waking up in a stranger's shirt, wondering what the hell happened to my body."
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, like it might hold her together.
"And I think…" She swallowed hard. "I think I'm dating him."
Jamie's brows rose slowly. "Wait—what?"
"I don't know," she said. "He's always there. He brings me tea. He watches out for me. He never says he's mine, but… he acts like he is. Like I am. He says things like they're promises, but I never asked. I never said yes. And he never did either. We just keep… being."
Jamie stared at her. "So let me get this straight. You think you're in a relationship with a guy you never defined anything with. Who might be involved in some very shady, very scary shit. Who you might have slept with while you were drunk. And you don't remember any of it."
Iris let out a weak laugh. "Yeah. When you say it like that, it sounds even worse."
Jamie leaned back against the counter, sighing long and low. "Do you like him?"
"I shouldn't," she said, immediately. "But… yeah. I do."
"And you're scared to ask him what this is because…"
"Because I think I already know the answer," she said, eyes shining. "And if it's the wrong one, I don't know how to survive it."
Jamie didn't speak for a while. The silence between them was thick—safe, but suffocating.
Then, gently: "Has he ever hurt you?"
"No."
"Made you feel unsafe?"
She hesitated this time. "Not exactly. Just… overwhelmed. Like he sees through me. Like he could rip me apart if he wanted to. But chooses not to."
Jamie made a face. "That's not… comforting."
"I know."
"But you don't think he's dangerous? To you?"
"No. I think he's dangerous to everyone else."
"Great," Jamie muttered. "That's so much better."
Iris huffed a laugh through her nose and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm a mess."
Jamie didn't deny it. Just reached into the grocery bag and pulled out two chocolate croissants. He unwrapped one and held it out to her.
She stared at it.
"You're allowed to eat," he said. "You're still allowed to be soft. To feel things. To exist."
Her fingers uncurled slowly, like she didn't trust herself to hold it.
Jamie's voice dropped. "You don't have to carry this alone. But you do have to decide what you want. Not what he wants. Not what happened. Not what you feel guilty about. Just… what you want. What you need."
She didn't answer.
But she took the croissant.
And for the first time that morning, she ate.