Iris
The silence between us stretches, thick and suffocating.
Eli won’t look at me. He’s staring at something over my shoulder, his jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets. Like he’s regretting every word he just said.
Like he wants to take it all back.
I should let him.
I should pretend I didn’t hear him. Should make a joke, change the subject, anything to erase whatever just happened between us.
But I can’t.
Not this time.
“You do?” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
Eli finally looks at me, and for a second, I see something in his eyes—something raw, something that makes my chest tighten. But it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.
“I already said, forget it.” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I didn’t come here to make things weird, Iris.”
“Too late for that,” I say, forcing a smirk that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but it’s not real. Not him.
Something’s changed, and we both know it.
I sip my coffee, trying to ignore the way my hands shake. “Why did you come here, then?”
Eli shrugs. “Wanted to see you.”
He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like showing up at my doorstep before the sun is even fully up isn’t something that should mean something.
But it does.
And that terrifies me.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “Well, you saw me. Mission accomplished. Happy?”
Eli’s expression flickers—hurt, maybe? Disappointment? But he doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead, he just nods. “Yeah. Guess so.”
For a second, I think he’s going to leave. That he’s going to walk away, and we’ll both pretend this never happened.
But he doesn’t.
He lingers, shifting on his feet like there’s something else he wants to say.
And then, in a voice so quiet I almost miss it, he asks, “Are you okay?”
I freeze.
Because that—that is the question I don’t know how to answer.
I could lie. Could tell him I’m fine, that I got enough sleep, that everything’s perfectly normal.
But Eli isn’t stupid.
And I’m so, so tired of pretending.
I lower my gaze, staring into the dark swirl of my coffee. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
It’s the closest thing to the truth I can give him.
Eli doesn’t push. Doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay, or that he understands, or any of the usual empty reassurances.
Instead, he just says, “Okay.”
And somehow, that one word is enough.
"By the way, you said you had something to show me in your studio," Eli says.
I blink at him, momentarily thrown off. I did say that, didn’t I? It was late last night—when my thoughts were running in circles, and I needed an excuse to keep talking to him.
I hesitate. A part of me wants to make up some excuse, to tell him I forgot, that it doesn’t matter anymore.
But the other part—the part that wants him here, that likes the way his presence grounds me—wins.
I sigh, stepping back to let him inside. “Yeah. Come on.”
Eli follows me down the narrow hallway, his footsteps quiet against the wooden floor. My studio isn’t much—just a small spare room I turned into my personal space. It smells like paint and coffee, the walls lined with half-finished canvases and scattered sketches.
Eli has been here before, but he still takes a slow look around, like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Messy,” he comments.
I snort. “Thanks for the observation, Picasso.”
He grins but doesn’t argue.
I walk over to the farthest corner, where a large canvas is covered with a cloth. My fingers hesitate before pulling it off, revealing the painting underneath.
It’s… raw.
Chaotic strokes of color, sharp contrasts of dark and light, blending and clashing at the same time. I don’t even know how to describe it properly—it’s not a portrait, not abstract, not anything that fits neatly into a box.
It’s just feeling.
My feeling.
And it’s the closest thing to the truth I’ve ever put on a canvas.
I hear Eli exhale softly beside me. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then—
“Iris.”
Just my name. Barely above a whisper.
I don’t look at him. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“No,” he says immediately. “It’s not.”
I cross my arms, shifting my weight. “It’s messy. Doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense.”
His voice is steady, certain. And when I finally turn to look at him, his eyes are soft in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“It’s you,” he says simply.
Three words.
Three stupid words that somehow mean everything.
I swallow hard, looking away. “Don’t get all deep on me, Carter.”
He chuckles. “Too late for that.”
I shake my head, but there’s a small smile tugging at my lips.
Because somehow, without even trying, Eli always knows exactly what to say.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most.