I choke on my drink. “What do you want them to say?”
“I don’t know!” she says, throwing her hands up. “Something normal. Something charming. Something like—I don’t know, what would you say?”
“What wouldI say?”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “You’re always sweet and kind and…yeah. What would you say?”
I swallow hard, gripping my glass even harder. At this point, I’m afraid it’s going to shatter.
“I guess…” I start. “If I were trying to…charm someone…” My voice rasps, throat dry. “I’d probably say something like…”
Iris tilts her head, waiting, watching.
“I’d say…that I’ve never met anyone like them before,” I say, not looking at her. “That they make every place feel warmer, like they bring their own unique light everywhere they go. I tell them that they have this way of making people feel…feel like they matter. And that it’s not just kindness—it’s them. The way they talk, the way they listen, the way they care.”
Iris isn’t laughing, doesn’t interrupt. I just let the words keep pouring out.
“I’d say that I notice things about them that I don’t think anyone else does,” I mutter, running my fingers up and down the cool glass. “Like the way they get this crease between their brows when they’re trying to puzzle something out. Or how they hum under their breath when they’re happy—usually something off-key, but never in a way that matters.” I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head. “And how sometimes, when they’re reading, they get so lost in their own head that they forget they exist in a body at all—until they go to stretch and realize they’ve been sitting in the same position for hours.”
Iris blinks at me, eyes wide. She doesn’t say a word.
My fingers tighten around my glass. I should stop. I should stop before I say too much.
But I don’t.
“I’d tell them that I like the way they smell,” I say, barely more than a whisper. “Like honey and old books, like the sweetest flower.”
Her breath catches.
“And that I love how their voice sounds when they first wake up, all sleepy and soft.” I swallow, my throat aching. “I’d say that I love how they love things. That it doesn’t matter what it is—a book, a new idea, some ridiculous new recipe they found—theylovewith everything they have. With all of them. And I think…” I exhale, rubbing at the back of my neck. “I think that’s the best thing about them.”
Silence.
The fire crackles. The hum of the tavern fades to a distant murmur.
I clear my throat, forcing a small smile, trying to smother the rawness in my voice. “That’s…what I’d say,” I finish, keeping my tone light. “If I were flirting.”
3
IRIS
Garrik is cute and I am sloshed…and my impulse control seems to have gone hurtling straight into the sun.
It’s the mead. Has to be the mead.
Because otherwise, I’d have to accept that this is justme—me, sitting here, warm and flushed, gripping my glass like it might keep me tethered to reality while Garrik’s words replay in my head on an endless, dizzying loop.
I’d tell them that I like the way they smell. Like honey and old books, like the sweetest flower.
We’ve known each other for years, and for some reason it never clicked until just now. Garrik isso cuteand I wanted to hear what he would say because I wanted him to say it.
Maybe that doesn’t make sense.
I don’t particularly care right now.
I blink at him. My mouth is dry, my brain feels like it’s moving through molasses, and my heart isdefinitelydoing something deeply inconvenient. He’s sitting there, large and steady and so fucking solid, watching me with careful patience—like he’s already decided I’ll brush it off, pretend he didn’t just say all of that, pretend that my chest isn’t too tight and my handsaren’t shaking and my whole body doesn’t want to crawl into his lap and stay there forever.
What do I do with this?
