The café was too bright.
Iris lingered outside for a full minute before entering, staring at the dusty window as if it might reveal something. Her reflection stared back — small, a little pale, bundled in her favorite oversized cardigan like armor. She shifted her weight, the familiar pressure in her left leg pulsing just enough to remind her she was alive. Still here. Still moving.
The bell above the door gave a cheerful chime when she entered, and it made her flinch.
The place was crowded in a quiet sort of way. Clinking mugs. Dull chatter. A baby squealing somewhere in the back. The smell of roasted beans and almond pastries wrapped around her like a too-tight hug.
She spotted him almost immediately.
He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He didn't even stand up. But she knew it was him — tall, lean, and terrifyingly still. His posture was too perfect for a man on a casual coffee date, like he might salute the table. His hands were clasped on the surface in front of him, and he was studying the menu like it was a mission briefing.
He looked… controlled. Not handsome, not exactly. But sharp. Clean. Precise.
She almost left.
Instead, she walked over, the sound of her boots barely noticeable over the low hum of the café. He looked up as she approached. No surprise in his expression. No warmth either. Just awareness.
"Iris?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.
She nodded. "Adam?"
He inclined his head — not a nod. An acknowledgment.
God, this was a mistake.
She slid into the seat across from him, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. Her fingers itched for fabric, for pins or a seam ripper or something that made sense. She hadn't even wanted to make the app profile — it had been a dare from the girl at the florist's next to her shop. One date. Just one. Get a free muffin.
Well. Here she was.
"So," she said, voice already catching. "You're real."
He blinked. "That was in question?"
She flushed. "I just—sometimes the pictures—never mind."
There was a pause. He didn't try to fill it. He didn't try anything, really. Just watched her.
It made her want to disappear into her scarf.
"I don't do this often," she admitted, voice quieter.
"I don't do this at all," he replied.
She looked up, surprised. "Then why—?"
"My friend made the account. Said I was impossible to talk to."
Iris blinked, then snorted before she could stop herself. "Are you?"
"I suppose we'll find out."
There was something about the way he said it — not sarcastic, not cold. Just… matter-of-fact. Like admitting the weather.
Iris tried to settle her hands on the table. Tried to stop tugging her sleeves. "You don't seem like the dating app type."
"Neither do you."
Another pause. Then — to her shock — the tiniest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like a ghost of one. She wasn't sure if it was meant for her or himself.
"What do you do?" he asked, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"I, uh… I run a tailoring shop. Alterations. Repairs. That kind of thing."
He glanced down, taking in her outfit — the hand-stitched cuffs, the mismatched buttons, the frayed satchel patched with a floral scrap.
"You made that," he said.
It wasn't a question. It wasn't judgmental either.
"I modify a lot of things," she said, defensive before she meant to be. "I like making them feel… safe."
"Safe?"
"Like me," she added. Then immediately regretted it.
He didn't laugh. Didn't look uncomfortable. He just nodded. Like he understood.
"And you?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"Military," he said. "Or I was. Still… affiliated."
That explained the posture. The haircut. The way he hadn't stopped scanning the room since she sat down.
She suddenly didn't know what to say.
"Is that a problem?" he asked, and his voice had changed. Not louder, but sharper. Like he was bracing.
"No," she said quickly. "I mean… no. It's just—"
"Unexpected."
"Yeah."
They sat in silence again. But this time, it didn't feel quite as suffocating. It felt… mutual.
The waitress came and went. He ordered black coffee. She ordered a chai and didn't touch it.
Iris sipped her lukewarm chai out of obligation, not interest. Across the table, Adam had barely touched his coffee. His gaze was restless. Not nervous — never that — but controlled. Strategic. Like he was still deciding if she was a threat or just a waste of time.
"So," Iris said, trying to sound casual, "what do you actually do in the military? Or is that classified?"
He didn't blink. "I deal with problems."
"Vague. Comforting."
He studied her. "I didn't come here to lie."
"Wow, romantic."
That got a flicker of reaction — maybe the barest hint of amusement. Or maybe annoyance. Hard to tell.
She fiddled with her ring — not a real one, just a brass band she'd melted and shaped herself. Her fingers were stained with dye from a ruined batch of fabric.
"I didn't come here for this either," she muttered, not meaning to say it aloud.
Adam's jaw ticked. "Then why are you here?"
She hesitated. "Because I promised I'd try. One date. One conversation. Then I could say I tried."
"And you regret it?"
"I'm still deciding."
A long pause.
Then he leaned back in his chair and said, almost to himself, "You're not what I expected."
"Ditto," she said. "I thought you'd be… less scary."
"Most people find that part out too late."
That should've made her laugh. Or flinch. But instead, she looked at him—really looked—and asked softly, "Are you trying to scare me?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't try," he finally said. "I just am."
The honesty hit harder than it should have.
Iris looked down. "Yeah. I get that."
They sat in silence again, but something had shifted — a tension, yes, but not the suffocating kind. More like… a pull.
Then the sound of raised voices snapped her out of it.
Across the café, a man was yelling at the barista. Something about milk alternatives, and a missed order. It was loud. Stupid. Harsh.
Iris flinched at the shouting. She hated public scenes. Her hands curled in her lap.
Adam, however, didn't just look — he moved.
Without a word, he stood. Walked calmly toward the counter. His presence alone shut the man up mid-rant.
"You need to leave," Adam said quietly.
The guy blinked. "Who the hell are you?"
Adam didn't raise his voice. "Someone you don't want to test."
And just like that, the guy backed down, muttering something and storming out. The barista exhaled. People returned to their conversations.
Adam came back like it hadn't happened.
Iris stared. "You didn't even touch him."
"I didn't need to."
"That was—" She struggled. "Weirdly effective. And slightly terrifying."
"You said you liked honest."
"I said I was honest. I didn't say I liked it."
She expected a smirk. Instead, he gave her a look that felt too sharp. Too knowing.
"You flinched when he raised his voice."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not good with yelling."
He nodded, slowly. "Same."
Their eyes locked. For once, no walls. Just… scars showing, even if only for a second.
She broke the gaze first, clearing her throat and looking away. "Thanks, by the way."
He didn't say anything, but she felt his stare like heat under her skin.
"Do you want to leave?" he asked finally.
She hesitated. "What, like… together?"
"No. I mean—this place. The café. We could walk."
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't even polite.
But she heard what he didn't say: Do you want to not be alone for a little while?
And despite every bone in her body telling her to retreat — to go home, lock the door, and drown in fabric — she nodded.
"Yeah. Okay."