The movie theater was too cold.
Not the kind of cold that made you shiver, but the kind that settled into your collarbones and made your skin feel too tight. Iris sat with her hands curled around a bucket of popcorn she wasn't eating, eyes fixed on the screen but not watching. The glow from the movie flickered across Adam's face—stone-still, unreadable. They weren't touching. They hadn't said much. Just breathing the same recycled air and pretending it wasn't weird.
It hadn't been planned.
She'd bumped into him in the stairwell three days ago—literally ran into him, smacked forehead to chest—and immediately started apologizing for… well, everything. For crying. For being embarrassing. For existing too loudly. But instead of walking away, he'd looked at her with that unsettling calm and asked if she liked movies. Said there was one playing Friday night. No pressure. Just… an idea.
She said yes before her brain caught up.
And now here they were. Sitting together in the dark. Sharing silence like it was a second language.
The movie was supposed to be funny.
She picked it because it had pastel posters and a happy ending and two actors known for playing idiots in love. It seemed safe. Neutral. A thing people did when they were trying not to scare each other off.
But ten minutes in, she realized she hadn't laughed once.
Adam sat beside her like a statue, legs spread, arms folded, gaze sharp even in the flickering dark. He wasn't reacting to the movie, or the jokes, or the couple behind them whisper-fighting over nachos. Just… sitting there. Watching. Waiting.
It was killing her.
Iris shifted in her seat, then again, then gave up and whispered, "This was a terrible idea."
Adam didn't look away from the screen. "You picked it."
"Yeah, and I regret it."
A pause.
He leaned a little closer. "Want to leave?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. Do you?"
"I don't care about the movie."
That stopped her.
Slowly, she turned to face him. "Then what are we doing here?"
This time, he did meet her eyes.
"You said yes."
Her stomach flipped.
And there it was again—that impossible calm in his voice. That refusal to flinch or apologize. Like asking her out had been a simple question, not a loaded weapon. Like showing up hadn't meant anything more than showing up.
"I did," she said. "I just didn't think you actually meant it."
He arched a brow. "Why wouldn't I?"
Iris stared down at her lap. "Because most people don't ask out the girl who has a full-blown breakdown in front of them."
Adam was quiet for a beat.
Then: "You cried."
"Yup."
"You didn't break down."
She snorted softly. "That's a technicality."
"No," he said, more firmly. "A breakdown is messy. Loud. Desperate."
He paused, and there was a strange softness in his voice when he added, "You cried like it was honest."
The words landed like warm metal.
She didn't know what to say. Her throat tightened with something she didn't want to name.
He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting to the screen again. "Most people fake it."
She blinked. "You mean… emotion?"
"Everything."
They sat in silence for another long moment.
Then she asked, voice low: "And I didn't scare you off?"
Adam turned to her, very slowly.
"No," he said. "But I don't think you believe that."
That… was fair.
"I just thought—" she started, then stopped. "It doesn't matter."
Adam didn't push.
She appreciated that. Hated that. Wanted him to ask anyway.
Instead, he said, "Come on."
She blinked. "What?"
He was already standing. "We're leaving."
"But the movie—"
"Is bad," he said flatly. "And I'd rather walk somewhere."
Iris hesitated.
Then grabbed her coat, her bag, and the popcorn she still hadn't eaten. "Okay."
They slipped out into the night together—two figures in the glow of a parking lot lamp, a little too quiet for strangers, a little too unfamiliar for friends.
She didn't know what this was.
But for once, she didn't feel like apologizing for wanting to find out.
They walked side by side through the city's glowing blur—storefronts lit like stage sets, couples laughing under strings of lights, traffic humming a restless lullaby.
Iris clutched the nearly full popcorn bucket to her chest like it meant something. Adam didn't say much, but his presence was steady beside her, a constant she was starting to get used to. She'd even let herself smile once. Just once. At something stupid he said about butter being a scam.
It was nice. Too nice.
And that's when it happened.
A hand shot out of nowhere and yanked her sideways.
She didn't even scream.
One second she was walking.
The next, she was dragged halfway into an alley—her elbow slamming into brick, the popcorn bucket hitting the ground, her brain too stunned to catch up.
"Gimme the purse," a voice snapped. Breath hot. Body too close. Something cold pressed to her ribs—metal? A knife?
She froze.
Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
Then—
A blur.
Adam.
He moved like a switchblade—silent, fast, and already mid-swing by the time her attacker turned.
The man barely got out a sound.
One punch—straight to the jaw.
Another to the ribs.
A third to the temple.
Crunch.
The man dropped.
Iris stumbled backward, hand over her mouth, heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.
Adam stood over the guy's crumpled body, breathing hard, fists clenched. No hesitation. No mercy. Blood already smeared on his knuckles.
And no one had stopped.
People walked past at the alley's mouth, oblivious. Indifferent. A world away.
Iris stared.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Adam finally turned to her.
"You okay?"
His voice was flat. Calm. Too calm.
She nodded before she could think, but her legs were trembling.
"I—he had a knife," she whispered.
"He didn't use it."
There was something in his eyes—something cold and ancient and alive. She didn't know if it scared her.
Or thrilled her.
Her voice shook. "You could've killed him."
"I didn't."
"But you could've."
He didn't answer.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. Not here. Not for them.
Adam looked at the unconscious man one more time. Then he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders without asking.
"Let's go."
She followed him back into the crowd like she didn't have a choice.
Because maybe she didn't.
Not anymore.