Iris
Me: You're really crazy, Eli. Okay, good night and see you tomorrow.
I hit send before I can think too much about it. Before I can overanalyze the weight of his last message.
Before I can let myself believe—even for a second—that he actually meant it.
I set my phone down, staring at the ceiling. The room is too quiet, but my mind is too loud. My thoughts race, crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
And what if I do?
Eli’s words loop in my head, over and over.
No. I can’t go there.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep. But my body is buzzing with something restless, something unsettled. Something that feels dangerously close to hope.
Hope is a liar.
It whispers things in your ear, makes you believe in things that aren’t real. It tells you that someone like Eli—stable, patient, too good for someone like me—could actually want this chaos.
Want me.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, tangled in my own thoughts. At some point, exhaustion wins. My body crashes, pulling me into sleep.
When I wake up, it’s way too bright, and my phone is vibrating against my pillow.
I groan, blindly reaching for it.
Eli: I’m outside. Wake up, sleeping beauty.
I jolt upright.
What.
I rub my eyes, squinting at the screen, half-convinced I’m still dreaming.
Nope. The message is real.
I throw the blanket off and scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over an empty paint can. I glance at the mirror. My hair is a mess, my shirt is inside out, and I look like I lost a fight with sleep deprivation.
Shit.
My phone vibrates again.
Eli: Don’t make me break in.
I roll my eyes, grabbing a hoodie and yanking it over my head before rushing to the door. When I swing it open, Eli is standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“Damn, Blackwood,” he says, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “Rough night?”
I scowl. “Shut up.”
He just grins. Then, without warning, he lifts a coffee cup in front of me. “Peace offering?”
The scent of caffeine and sugar hits me like salvation.
“You may live,” I mutter, grabbing it from his hand and taking a sip. It’s exactly how I like it. Too sweet. Almost unbearably sweet. But that’s the thing about Eli—he knows.
I lean against the doorframe, letting the warm cup thaw some of the restlessness still clinging to me from last night. “So, what’s with the early morning ambush?”
Eli tilts his head. “You said see you tomorrow. It’s tomorrow.”
I blink at him.
Then, despite myself, I laugh.
Of course. Of course, Eli would take it literally.
I shake my head, sipping my coffee. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugs, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You love it.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because maybe I do.
Maybe I always have.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
Eli leans against the door frame, looking too comfortable for someone who just showed up unannounced. He watches me sip my coffee, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
I take another sip, avoiding his gaze. “Define sleep.”
Eli sighs. “Iris.”
My grip tightens around the cup. I hate when he says my name like that—like he’s peeling back layers I don’t want him to see. Like he already knows the answer.
“Relax,” I say, forcing a smirk. “I got a solid… two hours? A half? Maybe three.”
Eli’s jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s biting back a lecture. He does this thing where his fingers twitch—like he wants to reach out but stops himself.
Like he knows I’d pull away.
I roll my eyes, nudging him with my foot. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re worse than my mom.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well, you’re worse than a child.”
I place a hand over my heart, mock-offended. “Wow. Hurtful. And here I thought you liked me.”
It’s a joke. It’s supposed to be a joke.
But the second the words leave my mouth, the air between us shifts.
Because Eli doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t roll his eyes or throw back a snarky remark like he usually does.
Instead, he just looks at me.
And suddenly, it feels too quiet. Too close.
I open my mouth—say something, anything—but he beats me to it.
“I do,” he says.
My breath catches.
His voice is steady, like he’s not afraid of the weight behind those two words.
Like he means them.
I grip my coffee cup tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Eli—”
He shakes his head. “Forget it.” He steps back, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s too early for this.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Too early.
Right.
We can pretend this moment didn’t happen. We can shove it under the rug like we always do.
But deep down, I know—
This space between us is getting smaller.
And sooner or later, one of us is going to cross the line.