"I always feel too much."
She said it like it was a confession. Like she hated it about herself.
Adam hadn't stopped thinking about that line.
She does feel too much.
That was the problem.
And the reason she was still under his skin.
People like Iris were made to break. Fragile around the edges. Soft in all the wrong places. The kind who says sorry before she screams. Who offers kindness like it's not a guarantee it'll be used against her.
He hadn't decided yet whether to protect that softness.
Or see how long it would take before it shattered.
He adjusted his cuffs as he stepped into the garage, the concrete echoing under his boots. The low hum of the engine greeted him—black car already running, exhaust curling like smoke beneath the overhead lights.
Mateo leaned against the hood, sunglasses on.
"Do you sleep in those, or are you just making a fashion statement?" Adam muttered as he slid into the passenger seat.
"Why not both?" Mateo replied, slipping behind the wheel. "Rough night?"
Adam didn't answer. Just stared ahead as they pulled out into the alley.
Mateo glanced sideways. "You look like someone said something that made you feel things. Want to talk about it?"
"I want to kick Tony's teeth in," Adam said flatly. "That's what I want."
Mateo smirked. "That the dating profile thing?"
"Yes."
"Thought it was funny."
"It was not funny."
"He said you were lonely."
Adam turned his head slowly. "So the solution was setting me up with a woman who literally cried on the sidewalk thirty minutes into knowing me?"
"Sounds romantic."
"She cried for me, Mateo. I mentioned my childhood dog and she nearly sobbed like she'd known him."
Mateo lifted one hand in surrender, fighting a grin. "Hey, better than someone fake-laughing at your trauma, right?"
Adam ignored him.
"She's… soft," he said after a beat. "Too soft. She doesn't know how the world works."
"And that's a problem because…?"
"Because the world eats people like that alive. Because I almost wanted to stop it."
Mateo gave him a long look. "You catching feelings for this girl?"
"I'm catching concern. That's different."
"Sure."
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Then Mateo casually asked, "So... you seeing her again?"
Adam exhaled through his nose. "Not if I can help it."
"Liar."
The warehouse came into view—low, grey, and quiet. Armed men lingered at the perimeter like shadows.
Mateo pulled into the lot and killed the engine.
"They're inside," he said. "Tied up. Waiting."
Adam opened the door. Straightened his coat.
"The one who called us a joke," Mateo added, "is pissing himself already. Want me to rough him up first?"
"No. Let him talk. If he lies, we skip the warehouse next time."
"River?"
"River."
Adam stepped into the cold, sleeves sharp, boots louder than the wind. He paused at the entrance.
"Oh, and Mateo?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell Tony if he ever gives my personal info to a dating site again, I'll make him eat his own SIM card."
Mateo grinned as he pulled the door open. "I'll send flowers to the ER."
.
Iris stood on the sidewalk long after Adam disappeared.
The crowd moved around her in waves—shoulders brushing, shoes slapping pavement, voices colliding into a dull, meaningless hum. But all she could hear was his voice.
You're not in control anymore.
You feel too much.
Only for people who don't know what to do with it.
She kept replaying it. Not just the words—but the way he said them. Calm. Inevitable. Like he already knew her reactions before they happened. Like her tears hadn't surprised him at all.
Her legs eventually started moving, muscle memory kicking in where thought had stalled. She didn't remember the walk back to the boutique. Just the sharp click of her keys in the lock, the soft thud of the door behind her, and the smell that always greeted her: fabric dust, wood polish, the faint trace of lemon oil on the floors.
She sat at her worktable and stared at the sewing machine. Reached for the thread.
Stopped.
And just sat there.
Hands still.
Mind loud.
It had been a long time since she cried in front of someone.
Never like that. Never in public. Never in front of a man like him.
She didn't know Adam. Not really. He had barely said a dozen sentences to her total. But somehow, he felt like a storm she recognized—just before it split the sky. Everything about him was composed and sharp, but under the surface… there was something hungry. Something she couldn't name.
She should be afraid of that.
She was afraid of that.
So why did it feel like the safest thing she'd felt in years?
The bell over the boutique door jingled.
She jumped.
It was only Jamie—bag slung over his shoulder, iced coffee in one hand, wearing jeans that had definitely seen better years.
"Hey," he said, stepping inside and taking one look at her. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I didn't," she said quickly. A lie, obviously.
He raised an eyebrow, but let it slide. Dropped his stuff by the counter and leaned in casually.
"Did you sleep?"
"No."
"Eat anything?"
"No."
"Cry?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"You only look like this when you've been crying," Jamie said, gentler now. "What happened?"
Iris opened her mouth to respond. Closed it. Shook her head.
"Nothing," she mumbled. "Just tired."
Jamie didn't believe her. She could see it in the way his shoulders tightened. But he didn't press. He just gave her a slow nod, grabbed a stool, and sat beside a pile of buttons on the counter.
He started sorting them by color. No commentary. No eye contact.
It was the kindest thing anyone could've done.
Iris sat still for a minute. Then three. Then she buried her face in her hands and groaned.
"Oh my god."
Jamie looked up. "What?"
She kept her face covered. "I just ruined my—"
She stopped. The words caught in her throat.
"My what?" he asked.
She slowly dropped her hands. "My… god, I don't even know what it was. A date? A conversation? A full psychological case study?"
Jamie's eyebrow lifted.
"I cried," she said, and her voice pitched higher. "In the street. In public. In front of him. Like—like full-on, breath-hitching, guilt-spiraling, ugly crying. I told him how sorry I was. I practically gave a eulogy for his childhood dog. And he just stood there. Watching me. Not saying a word."
Jamie stayed still.
"Like I was—like I was some cracked-glass sculpture he wasn't sure he wanted to touch."
"Okay… and?" he said, cautious.
"And I probably scared him off," she said quickly. "Or made him uncomfortable. Or embarrassed him. I mean, who does that, Jamie? Who gets that emotional in front of someone they just met?"
"You do."
"Thanks," she deadpanned.
"No, seriously. You're a crier."
"I cry at pasta commercials. Not in front of emotionally distant, ex-military god-men."
Jamie snorted, but she didn't laugh with him.
"I'm serious," she whispered. Her fingers clenched around the edge of the table. "He was cold. Detached. The kind of man who doesn't flinch when you say the worst thing that's ever happened to you. And I just stood there like a soap opera character having a breakdown."
Jamie tilted his head. "Did he tell you he was uncomfortable?"
"No."
"Did he walk away?"
"Eventually."
"Because of you?"
"I don't know, Jamie."
He dropped a button into the wrong pile. "So, what—you're mad at yourself for being human?"
"I'm mad at myself for being too much."
"You're not."
"Yes, I am," she said, her voice cracking. "I always am. I feel too hard. I talk too soft. I say the wrong thing. I—"
Her words caught in her throat. She pressed her palms to her eyes again.
"I finally talk to someone who feels like he actually sees me, and I just… unravel."
Jamie got up. Walked over. Placed a hand on her shoulder—warm, steady.
"You didn't unravel," he said gently. "You showed up. Maybe for the first time in a long time."
She didn't answer.
Not because she disagreed.
Because part of her wanted to believe that.
But that part?
That part was buried somewhere beneath the shame.
And right now, it was still too quiet to reach.