Ashcroft folded the page Iris had left under his notebook. The handwriting was sharp, slanted, and frustratingly solid.
Still think I'm chaotic?
No. But he wasn't going to admit that.
He slipped the page into his coat pocket.
They walked out of the study room together, their coats brushing lightly as they turned the corner.
"Paper's done," Iris said. "We should celebrate."
Ashcroft gave her a glance. "Doing what?"
"Food."
"What kind of food?"
"The good kind. Greasy. Sold by people who don't care about your last name."
He slowed his steps. "You mean street food."
"I mean life." She smiled. "You coming or not?"
He paused. "One hour."
The market near King's Cross was loud and full of smoke. People laughed, vendors shouted, and something spicy clung to the air.
Ashcroft looked like he didn't belong. Iris looked like she did.
She handed over coins and picked something off a grill.
"Try this," she said.
He stared. "What is it?"
"Delicious."
"That's not an answer."
"Exactly."
She turned toward him and held out a piece. Steam curled off it.
"Open," she said.
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're going to stand here analyzing it until it's cold. Just eat."
He hesitated. Then leaned forward.
She fed him.
It was hot. Sharp with spice. Unexpected.
"Well?" she asked.
"It's not terrible."
"Wow. You really know how to compliment a chef."
They walked back slowly, the noise fading behind them.
"You don't do this kind of thing, do you?" she asked.
"What thing?"
"Relax."
He didn't answer right away. "I prefer routine."
"That's not the same as being alive."
He looked at her. Then ahead again.
"You're different when you're not making a point."
She smiled faintly. "So are you."
His flat was quiet. Light from the window stretched across the desk.
A single envelope sat waiting. White. Unmistakable seal.
He opened it.
I expect better. Mediocrity may be fashionable to your companions, but it does not suit an Ashcroft.
He read it. Folded it once. Set it down.
And sat.
The taste of spice hadn't faded.
He sat there, quiet, unreadable—until a voice broke through the silence.
"Ashcroft."
He looked up, surprised.
Across the narrow lane outside his window, Iris leaned out from a second-floor ledge, coat half-on, hair loose.
"Don't argue," she said. "Come for a walk."
They walked in silence. No crowd this time. Just cold air and quiet spaces.
She didn't ask what was wrong. She didn't need to.
He followed without question.
They stopped at a bench near a garden wall, bare branches clawing at the sky.
She pulled a leftover skewer from her coat pocket. Still warm, wrapped in paper.
"Here," she said. "In case the first bite didn't traumatize you enough."
He hesitated.
"Don't make me feed you again," she warned.
He gave her a flat look.
"You wouldn't," he said.
"I would."
She tore off a bite-sized piece, held it up.
Ashcroft exhaled through his nose. Then—leaned in.
This time, she caught the faintest flush on his face as he chewed.
She said nothing.
And he didn't dare meet her eyes.