His antennae twitch. “No.”
I squint at him. “Are you sure? Because that pause was very suspicious.”
“I don’t have someplace to be,” he repeats, slow and careful, like he knows I’ll pick him apart if he says too much.
Which…I will.
But he never used to hesitate when I asked him to grab a drink. Back on Earth, after a long day of hauling books and dodging Boreans, I’d drag him to whatever ramshackle bar we could find. He’d let me babble, let me press close when I was tipsy, let me use him as my personal heater when the nights got cold.
The idea that he might say no now feels weirdly off-balance.
I poke his arm. “Then come on, beekeeper. First round’s on me.”
He exhales through his nose—that deep, measured way he always does when he’s giving in. Then, finally:
“Alright.”
2
GARRIK
Anice visit to the library.
That's all this was supposed to be—swing by the library, talk to Iris, see if my pesky feelings have gone away. Now, she's walking beside me, honey blonde curls bouncing in a tumbling ponytail, glasses perched on the tip of her pink nose, looking better than she ever has before.
I've determined by feelings haven't gone away at all.
And this is a recipe for disaster.
Mythara Brewing Company—or as the locals call it, MBC—is already packed by the time we walk in, Iris using her short stature to duck through the crowd. It’s almost like a hive in here: the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glass on wood. The air is thick with the scent of honeyed spirits, warm spices, and flowers: rich and decadent Merati everbloom, sultry Terran rose. I breathe it in, already scanning the menu.
Or…I would be, if there wasn't one overwhelming scent that covers everything else.
It should be overwhelming.
Instead, I’m aware of only one thing: my favorite scent in the universe.
Iris.
She’s beside me, her arm brushing against mine as we weave through the crowd, the warmth of her presence more distracting than the noise, more potent than the scent of fermented nectar in the air. She’s always been like this—magnetic without meaning to be, pulling people in like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
And me? I’ve been orbiting her for a decade.
I should be better at handling it by now.
I am not.
She stops at the bar, planting her elbows on the counter and flashing the bartender a grin. “What have you got on tap?”
The bartender, an Ardaxian with large, glittering eyes who seems to be the only person here smaller than Iris, hops onto a step stool to reply.
“Little bit of everything,” he says. “Amphoria infusion, everbloom brew…that one's pretty popular.”
Iris looks up at me sidelong. “How much are you going to judge me for my selection?”
I huff out a laugh. “Just a little “
Iris snorts. “Then maybe you should decide. You're the expert, after all.”
