Iris weaves through the crowd, small and quick, her fingers brushing absently against my wrist before slipping away—like a fleeting touch of sunlight before the cold sets in. I force myself to keep my hands at my sides, to ignore the way her scent clings to me now, honey-sweet and familiar, lingering even through the thick air of the meadery.
We find a corner table tucked near the hearth, golden light flickering across the polished wood, casting long shadows. Iris sighs happily as she slides onto the cushioned bench, curling into the warmth of the fire. I take the seat across from her, shifting awkwardly to accommodate my size.
She watches, amused. “You look ridiculous.”
“You picked a small table.”
She grins. “You’re just too big.”
I huff, reaching for my glass. Too big. Yes. I have always been too big.
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim. She’s already relaxed, shoulders dropping, fingers tracing idle shapes against the side of her glass. She’s comfortable with me. She always has been.
That’s the problem.
I let the silence stretch between us, letting her fill it. It’s always been that way—she talks, I listen. And yet tonight, her words pull at something frayed inside me, something unraveling.
“…And the thing about M’miri scholars is that they never say no to a challenge,” she’s saying, eyes bright. “So when I brought up the idea of cataloging pre-Convergence artifacts in a separate archive, you should’ve seen their faces—like I’d just declared I was going to fly to the moons and pull them out of the sky myself.”
I hum in response, only half-hearing her. Because she’s glowing.
Not just in the firelight—but in the way she exists.
Like she belongs here.
Like she belongs anywhere she wants.
Like she still doesn’t realize she’s always belonged with me.
She catches me staring. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
The air shifts.
Her breath is soft, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Her pulse flutters at her throat, just visible in the warm light, and for one reckless, dangerous second, I wonder?—
If I reached across the table and touched her, would she let me?
She blinks, breaking the moment. “You okay?”
No.
Not even remotely.
I force a smile. “Just listening.”
Iris tilts her head, studying me, and something about the weight of her attention makes my stomach tighten. She has always been so good at seeing me. But never like this.
Never for what I truly am.
And yet—tonight, there’s a flicker of something different in her gaze. A question she doesn’t quite know how to ask.
I clear my throat, shifting in my seat. “You were saying?”
She hesitates, like she wants to push—but then, she smiles, shaking her head. “Nothing important.”
Everything is important.
Especially this.
