Drifted Apart.

They didn't talk much on the walk back.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because neither of them wanted to risk ruining the fragile something that had just started forming between them. Like silence, for once, was helping it grow.

But near the side garden gate, Iris nudged him with her elbow. "Still smiling?"

He blinked like he'd just realized it. "No."

"You are."

"Am not."

She grinned. "You're terrible at lying. It's endearing."

Ashcroft scoffed. "You must be confusing me with someone else."

"You're the only person I know who can make being slightly socially broken look sophisticated."

"Thank you," he said, almost sincerely.

They passed through the rusted gate and turned toward the stone benches behind the library. She sat without asking. He followed without thinking.

Neither opened their books.

Instead, she leaned back on her palms, staring up at the half-yellow leaves above.

"So," she said, casually, "I was going to return this."

From her coat pocket, she pulled out his glove—creased, worn, unmistakable.

Ashcroft stared at it. "You absolute thief."

"I was preserving it."

"In your pocket?"

"It's better than being abandoned in a library stairwell."

He reached out his hand, palm open. "Give it."

She didn't move.

"Iris."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

She turned to him slowly, smile dangerous. "Because you're fun to annoy."

"I will snatch it."

"Try me."

He did.

What followed wasn't elegant. It involved her twisting away, him trying to grab it and missing entirely, and at some point, Iris yelped out, "Ashcroft, you lunatic—this is Oxford, not a playground—"

He caught her wrist.

She froze.

The glove slipped from her fingers and fell between them, forgotten.

His fingers were still around her wrist, warm and careful. Not tight.

Their eyes met.

Ashcroft didn't speak.

Iris did. Softly. "You're blushing."

"I'm warm."

"You're pink."

He didn't deny it.

"Are you going to let go?"

"Eventually."

A beat.

"I like it," she said.

"What?"

"This side of you."

"There are sides?"

"Apparently. I just discovered the 'dorky and mildly possessive' version. Surprisingly tolerable."

Ashcroft cleared his throat and released her wrist. "You're not tolerable. You're exhausting."

She bent down, picked up the glove, and tossed it into his lap.

"You win this round, O great emotionally constipated one."

He looked at the glove like it owed him something. "I missed this."

"It's just a glove."

"No," he said. "This. Us."

She went still. "We're not an 'us.'"

"Not yet."

Her brow arched. "Confident."

He shrugged. "It's all I have going for me."

Another silence. This one lighter.

Then, she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.

"Come on, Ashcroft. We're late."

"For what?"

"Nothing important. But you walk like an old man and I want coffee."

He followed.

And maybe, just maybe—walked a little faster.

-