The crowd is thick, people milling around, congratulating the bachelors and their winners. I navigate through them with the efficiency of years of tactical training, my eyes scanning for that blue coat, that light brown hair.
There.
She's standing near the refreshment table with her brunette friend, looking flustered and lovely. Her friend is talking animatedly, hands gesturing, but Iris keeps glancing around, clearly searching.
Searching for me.
I approach from the side, and her friend sees me first. Her eyes widen, and she elbows Iris, who turns.
The air between us crackles.
Chapter 2 - Iris
Up close, he's even more overwhelming than he was on stage. Tall… so tall I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that makes the air feel thicker. And those eyes, storm-gray and focused on me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
My mouth goes dry.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is low, textured like gravel, the kind of voice that sounds like it doesn't get used for small talk.
"Hi," I manage, and it comes out breathier than I intended.
He's staring at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. Like I'm the first interesting thing he's seen in a very long time. The attention is overwhelming and thrilling and terrifying all at once.
"I'm Silas," he says, even though I obviously know that already.
"Iris." I resist the urge to smooth my hair, tuck it behind my ear, do something with my nervous hands. "I'm the one who... well, Nora bid first, but then I bid at the end, so I guess I'm the one who won…" I stop, heat flooding my cheeks. "That sounds weird. Won you. You're not a prize. I mean—"
"Iris." He steps closer, and I catch the scent of clean sweat and winter air, something fundamentally masculine that makes my pulse quicken. "Breathe."
I do, drawing in air that tastes like him, and watch his eyes track the movement of my chest.
"Thank you," he says. "For bidding."
"I... you're welcome?" I'm not sure why it comes out as a question. "It's for charity. The center needs…"
"I know what it's for." He pauses, and something flickers in his expression. "But that's not why you did it, is it?"
My heart stumbles. "What?"
"You bid at the end. Raised the amount when you didn't have to. Why?"
Because you looked like you'd rather be anywhere else. Because nobody was fighting for you and something about that felt fundamentally wrong. Because when our eyes met, I felt something I haven't felt in two years—alive.
I can't say any of that. It's too much, too honest, too revealing for someone I met five minutes ago.
"I don't know," I say finally. "I just... it felt like the right thing to do."
"The right thing."
"You were up there and nobody was bidding higher and you looked..." I trail off, searching for words that won't make me sound completely insane.
"Looked what?"
"Like you didn't care," I say softly. "But also like maybe you did. Just a little. And I thought... I thought maybe you deserved someone who cared too."
His expression shifts, something raw and unguarded flashes across his face before he can lock it down. But I saw it. That crack in his armor, that glimpse of vulnerability underneath all that military control.
"I'm picking you up next Friday," he says, and it's not a question. It's a statement of fact, delivered with absolute certainty. "Six o'clock. Bring warm clothes."
