“I wanted context.”
“For what?”
“For deciding whether you were worth protecting.”
That does it.
I laugh, louder. “Protecting me from what?”
“From consequences,” she says simply. “From men who don’t like being exposed. From narratives that change when it’s convenient. From the same system that chewed you up and will do it again if the story turns.”
“And you think you’re my shield.”
“I think I could be.”
I shake my head. “You don’t offer protection for free.”
“No,” she agrees. “I don’t.”
“What do you want?”
She lets the silence do a lap around my throat before she answers.
“To meet you.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Why?”
“Because I don’t trust voices,” Iris says. “I trust behavior.”
“Then you’ve been studying the wrong thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
Silence again. This one hums.
“I’m not introducing you to my life,” I say. “You don’t get access. You don’t get names.”
“I don’t want them,” she says. “I want you.”
That lands harder than it should.
I inhale once—controlled, stupidly careful.
“Tomorrow,” I say before I can stop myself.
She exhales, pleased but not surprised. “Lunch?”
“Public,” I add.
“Of course.”
“One hour.”
“Take two.”
I almost smile.
“You don’t tell anyone,” I say.
