The bus ride back from the riverside was mostly quiet.
Ashcroft sat beside Iris, their shoulders barely brushing every time the vehicle jolted over another bump. He stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, lips pressed together like he was holding something in.
"You always get that faraway look after sunsets," Iris said, her voice low.
He blinked. "Do I?"
"You do," she replied. "Like you're watching the end of something you can't stop."
Ashcroft tilted his head slightly. "That's… oddly specific."
"I'm oddly observant."
He didn't argue. Just kept staring ahead.
"Iris," he said after a beat. "Do you think I'm becoming someone else?"
She looked at him sideways. "In what way?"
"Like I'm turning into someone I wouldn't recognize."
"Ashcroft," she said, sighing. "You already don't recognize yourself most days."
He let out a soft, tired laugh. "Fair."
"But if you're asking if you're becoming worse… I don't think that's the right question."
"Then what is?"
"Are you letting other people decide who you are?"
He didn't respond. But he didn't look away from her, either.
-
The next day, they didn't go to the library.
Iris took his hand without asking and led him down the cobblestone lane behind the language building. No books, no studying. Just a walk.
"You're not kidnapping me again, are you?" he asked.
"You're too heavy to drag," she said. "We're going to a café."
He arched a brow. "Why?"
"Because the sun is out and you look like death in a trench coat."
The café was tucked between two aging bookshops, barely wide enough for six tables. The scent of roasted coffee beans and orange peel hung in the air, and some jazz record played faintly in the background. Ashcroft didn't protest when she pulled him into a booth. He didn't say anything at all.
When the waiter came, Iris ordered for both of them. He watched her over the top of his glasses.
"I know what you like better than you do," she said.
"Questionable."
"You'll survive."
The food came—waffles, thick and golden, slathered with syrup and fruit. Iris picked up a piece with her fork and held it out to him.
He blinked. "Are you serious?"
"Completely."
"I could feed myself, you know."
"I know. But this is funnier."
He exhaled through his nose, leaned forward, and took the bite.
He chewed slowly, deadpan.
"Well?" she asked.
"…It's good."
She narrowed her eyes.
"…Fine. It slaps."
Iris leaned back, victorious. "Told you."
For the first time in days, he laughed without bitterness.
-
The floor of the old greenhouse was uneven, cluttered with half-rotted boards and slick patches of moss. Somewhere above, the broken roof panels let in slices of dying daylight, illuminating swirls of dust in the air.
Iris stepped too quickly—one foot slipped out from under her.
"Ash—!"
He caught her.
It wasn't graceful. His hands wrapped around her arms too fast, and she half-collapsed into him, knocking over a rusted watering can. The clatter echoed through the greenhouse like a warning shot.
Then silence. Her hand was flat against his chest. His thumb was still pressed just below her shoulder.
And then, the absurdity of it all—her tilted posture, his stunned expression, the way a stray leaf was tangled in her hair—caught him off guard.
Ashcroft laughed.
A real, unfiltered, disarmed sound.
It broke something open in the air. Even the dust motes looked like they paused mid-spin to listen.
Iris squinted at him. "Did you just laugh?"
"Unfortunately."
"No. You laughed. Like—like a person." She gave his shoulder a light, performative smack. "You laugh like someone who forgot he could."
His smile dimmed but didn't disappear. His gaze softened on her face. "I think I did."
They were still too close.
Her arms were still in his grip. Their fingers, overlapping now. The air between them wasn't air anymore—it was static.
But no one moved.
For just a moment, Iris looked like she might say something. He did too. But whatever words rose to the surface, they stayed locked behind their teeth.
And then—hands let go. Slowly.
She stepped back and brushed the dirt off her sleeve like it hadn't meant anything. He adjusted his collar like it hadn't, either.
-
They didn't talk much on the walk back.
The sun had dipped just enough to turn the sky grey-orange. Outside the greenhouse, everything felt louder—cars, people, wind. The real world, seeping back in.
Ashcroft stayed a step behind her, not quite sure why he was walking her home. She didn't seem to mind.
When they reached the street where her building stood, she stopped without turning around.
For a second, it seemed like she was searching for something to say. Then:
"Don't overthink what today was."
Her voice was soft, even. But her hands were gripping her bag too tight.
"Sometimes," she added, "not everything has to be a moment."
Ashcroft stared at the side of her face, trying to find the catch in her expression.
"Then why," he said, "does it feel like one?"
That made her pause. She almost looked back.
Almost.
Instead, she smiled—barely, like a reflex. Then turned and went inside.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Ashcroft stood alone on the pavement, still holding on to something that hadn't been said.
-