He didn't promise anything.
But he held the door open.
And she noticed.
—
The library was louder that day. Not by much—just enough for Iris to comment.
"Too many people pretending to be studious," she muttered, nudging her chair an inch closer to Ashcroft's as she sat down. "Should be illegal."
Ashcroft didn't respond. He'd been staring at the same page for ten minutes.
She didn't push. Just leaned in slightly, scanning the text across his arm. "You're not even reading, are you?"
"I'm contemplating."
"You're sulking."
A beat. Then, quietly, "Maybe."
She smiled. "Progress."
Halfway through the hour, she reached across him to grab a pencil. Their arms brushed. He didn't flinch, but he did freeze.
Iris didn't say anything. Just began sketching a diagram in the margin of her notes, like nothing happened.
But the space between them stayed smaller after that.
Outside, it had started to snow. Just a little. Light enough to pretend it wasn't sticking.
They walked side by side, but closer than usual. Not enough to touch. But enough to notice.
Iris kicked at a patch of slush and said, "I had a dream you showed up in class wearing bright red gloves."
Ashcroft raised an eyebrow. "Symbolic."
"Tragic," she corrected. "You made a speech. Quoted Kant. Cried a little."
"I don't cry."
"You didn't in the dream either. But it looked like you wanted to."
He gave a quiet sound—half exhale, half amusement.
When they reached the steps of her building, she lingered.
"You're not so bad when you're a little off balance," she said.
He tilted his head. "You think I'm off balance?"
"I think you've been pretending not to feel cold since October."
He didn't answer.
But he stayed a second longer than necessary.
She noticed.
And didn't go inside right away.