Chapter 2
GARRIK
Anice visit to the library.
That's all this was supposed to be—swing by the library, talk to Iris, see if my pesky feelings have gone away. Now, she's walking beside me, honey blonde curls bouncing in a tumbling ponytail, glasses perched on the tip of her pink nose, looking better than she ever has before.
I've determined by feelings haven't gone away at all.
And this is a recipe for disaster.
Mythara Brewing Company—or as the locals call it, MBC—is already packed by the time we walk in, Iris using her short stature to duck through the crowd.
It’s almost like a hive in here: the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glass on wood.
The air is thick with the scent of honeyed spirits, warm spices, and flowers: rich and decadent Merati everbloom, sultry Terran rose.
I breathe it in, already scanning the menu.
Or…I would be, if there wasn't one overwhelming scent that covers everything else.
It should be overwhelming.
Instead, I’m aware of only one thing: my favorite scent in the universe.
Iris.
She’s beside me, her arm brushing against mine as we weave through the crowd, the warmth of her presence more distracting than the noise, more potent than the scent of fermented nectar in the air.
She’s always been like this—magnetic without meaning to be, pulling people in like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
And me? I’ve been orbiting her for a decade.
I should be better at handling it by now.
I am not.
She stops at the bar, planting her elbows on the counter and flashing the bartender a grin. “What have you got on tap?”
The bartender, an Ardaxian with large, glittering eyes who seems to be the only person here smaller than Iris, hops onto a step stool to reply.
“Little bit of everything,” he says. “Amphoria infusion, everbloom brew…that one's pretty popular.”
Iris looks up at me sidelong. “How much are you going to judge me for my selection?”
I huff out a laugh. “Just a little “
Iris snorts. “Then maybe you should decide. You're the expert, after all.”
I skim their menu, satisfied to see that they don't seem to have anything close to what I'm brewing in the Arborium. “Hm…” I hum, thinking about what Iris might like. It's hard for me to decide; nothing could be as sweet as her.
Gods, I'm fucked.
“When was the Seven Warriors honeymead bottled?” I ask.
“Three months ago.”
“Two glasses of that, please.”
The bartender nods and steps away, and Iris whistles when she finds the mead on the menu. “Pricy…”
“It's a special occasion,” I tells her. “And don't worry—it's on me.
“But I wanted something I could drink a lot of…”
I chuckle and shake my head. “You don't need a lot. You're such a lightweight you'll be falling asleep on your feet after a couple glasses of this stuff.”
She elbows me in the thigh. “And you’ll be awake to carry me home.”
That’s the problem: I will.
Because I always do.
The bartender slides two glasses across the counter. Iris takes hers, raising it in a mock toast. “To unexpected reunions.”
I don’t hesitate. I reach down to clink my glass against hers. “To unexpected reunions.”
She takes a sip. Her nose scrunches slightly, lips pressing together like she’s weighing the taste.
I tilt my head. “Good?”
She considers. “Tastes like…autumn.”
I take a slow sip of mine. It’s thick and golden, rich with honey and spices, smooth but deceptively strong. It settles warm in my chest, but not as warm as the way she’s watching me, eyes bright, expectant.
I swallow, setting my glass down. “Autumn, huh?”
She nods. “Like…crisp air, golden leaves, a little bit of fire in the hearth. Cozy.”
I don’t say it.
Don’t say that cozy is the exact word I would use to describe her.
Instead, I take another sip. “You always were poetic about your alcohol.”
She grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I shake my head, a smile pulling at my lips. “Never.”
Iris shivers as we step away from the bar, her small hand brushing against my forearm.
“Let’s find somewhere warm,” she murmurs, glancing around the crowded room.
She wants warmth.
I want distance.
And yet, I follow.
Iris weaves through the crowd, small and quick, her fingers brushing absently against my wrist before slipping away—like a fleeting touch of sunlight before the cold sets in.
I force myself to keep my hands at my sides, to ignore the way her scent clings to me now, honey-sweet and familiar, lingering even through the thick air of the meadery.
We find a corner table tucked near the hearth, golden light flickering across the polished wood, casting long shadows. Iris sighs happily as she slides onto the cushioned bench, curling into the warmth of the fire. I take the seat across from her, shifting awkwardly to accommodate my size.
She watches, amused. “You look ridiculous.”
“You picked a small table.”
She grins. “You’re just too big.”
I huff, reaching for my glass. Too big. Yes. I have always been too big.
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim. She’s already relaxed, shoulders dropping, fingers tracing idle shapes against the side of her glass. She’s comfortable with me. She always has been.
That’s the problem.
I let the silence stretch between us, letting her fill it. It’s always been that way—she talks, I listen. And yet tonight, her words pull at something frayed inside me, something unraveling.
“…And the thing about M’miri scholars is that they never say no to a challenge,” she’s saying, eyes bright.
“So when I brought up the idea of cataloging pre-Convergence artifacts in a separate archive, you should’ve seen their faces—like I’d just declared I was going to fly to the moons and pull them out of the sky myself. ”
I hum in response, only half-hearing her. Because she’s glowing.
Not just in the firelight—but in the way she exists.
Like she belongs here.
Like she belongs anywhere she wants.
Like she still doesn’t realize she’s always belonged with me.
She catches me staring. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
The air shifts.
Her breath is soft, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Her pulse flutters at her throat, just visible in the warm light, and for one reckless, dangerous second, I wonder—
If I reached across the table and touched her, would she let me?
She blinks, breaking the moment. “You okay?”
No.
Not even remotely.
I force a smile. “Just listening.”
Iris tilts her head, studying me, and something about the weight of her attention makes my stomach tighten. She has always been so good at seeing me. But never like this.
Never for what I truly am.
And yet—tonight, there’s a flicker of something different in her gaze. A question she doesn’t quite know how to ask.
I clear my throat, shifting in my seat. “You were saying?”
She hesitates, like she wants to push—but then, she smiles, shaking her head. “Nothing important.”
Everything is important.
Especially this.
Especially her.
She stretches her legs under the table, her foot brushing against my calf, casual, unthinking. I clench my jaw, willing my body not to react, but gods—
She has no idea what she does to me.
She leans forward slightly, propping her chin on one hand.
“But I wanted to know—what have you been up to?” Her voice is a little slower now, looser, the edges of her words softened by alcohol.
“I feel like I told you ages ago that you should come visit me, and now here you are. If you’d have warned me, I could have gotten the guest room in my place ready so you at least wouldn’t have to go home to the Arborium tonight. ”
I almost choke on my drink.
Staying in her house seems like an impossibly bad idea.
“I don’t think I would fit.”
Iris hums, pretending to consider, but the movement is a little lazy now, a little too relaxed. “I mean, you are huge, but I think if we worked at it…really took our time…got creative…we could probably make it work.”
She says it completely innocently.
I do not take it innocently.
For a second, my brain ceases to function. My ears burn. My hands tighten around my glass. Heat floods up my spine, and not even my emerald skin is enough to hide it.
Iris catches my expression immediately.
Her eyes widen. Then she snorts. Hard. Too hard. She slaps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking, but it’s no use. The second she peeks at me through her fingers, she loses it completely, dissolving into hiccupping laughter.
“Oh—oh my gods—Garrik,” she wheezes. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
I scowl, taking a very large, necessary sip of my mead. “Sure.”
“I didn’t!” She gasps, still laughing. “I just meant—I meant your size, you know? Physically! The actual logistics of the bed. Not—” She waves wildly in the air, making no actual shape with her hands. “—Not whatever you’re thinking.”
I grunt, draining half my drink and muttering into the rim, “Of course, I have no idea what you’re talking about—”
She points at me, waggling her finger like she’s caught me in a crime.
“You do!” she accuses.
I stay silent.
Her eyes narrow.
“Don’t play coy!” She kicks my shin softly but with conviction, her laughter turning downright wheezy. “You’re not nearly as innocent as you’d like people to believe.”
I exhale slowly, gripping my tankard like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world. It’s bad enough that Iris looks beautiful tonight—glowing in the firelight, curls catching the flicker of the hearth, smile easy and effortless—but now she’s teasing me too, without even meaning to.
Or…maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.
And that’s almost too much for me to handle.
A few more rounds in, we are both giggling idiots.
The room is warmer. The fire glows softer. My thoughts feel like they’re moving through honey, and I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or her.
Iris is half-slumped against the table, her elbow propped up, her cheek smushed against her palm.