(Iris’s POV)
I should be happy.
I am happy.
But deep down, there’s a small, nagging voice in my head telling me that this won’t last. That Eli will get tired of me, just like Christian did. That I’ll become too much for him to handle.
It’s been a week since we made it official, and so far, things have been… good. Almost too good.
Eli still texts me first thing in the morning, still calls me at night just to check in. He still sketches me absentmindedly when we’re together, as if I’m the only person in the world he sees.
And it terrifies me.
Because what if he sees all of me one day—the parts I hide, the parts I can’t control—and realizes he made a mistake?
“Hey.”
I snap out of my thoughts and blink at Eli, who’s sitting beside me on the couch in my apartment. He tilts his head, studying me.
“You’re zoning out again,” he says softly.
I force a smile. “Just thinking.”
His eyes search mine as if he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he stretches out his arm and casually drapes it over my shoulders, pulling me closer. My heart pounds, but I let myself lean into him.
“Are you free this weekend?” he asks.
I glance up at him. “Why?”
“I want to take you somewhere.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I frown. “You know I hate surprises.”
He smirks. “I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”
I groan. “Eli—”
“Nope, no complaints.” He pokes my forehead. “Trust me on this, okay?”
Trust.
That’s what this is about, isn’t it?
I sigh. “Fine. But if I hate it, you owe me coffee for a week.”
He laughs. “Deal.”
And just like that, my worries fade, even if just for a moment.
Maybe, just maybe, I can trust him with my heart.
(Eli’s POV)
She said yes.
Iris agreed to let me take her somewhere this weekend, even though I know she hates surprises.
That’s exactly why I planned this.
She overthinks everything. She’s always waiting for something to go wrong. But I want to show her that not everything in life has to be predictable or controlled. Sometimes, good things just happen.
I glance at her now, curled up beside me on the couch. She’s scrolling through her phone, but I can tell she’s still overthinking—her fingers are fidgeting, her brows slightly furrowed.
She’s so in her head all the time.
I don’t know how to make her see what I see. That she’s worth loving, even on her bad days.
I exhale and shift slightly, causing her to look up at me.
“You’re staring,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
I smirk. “Can’t help it. You’re my muse, remember?”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide the small smile forming on her lips.
God, I love that smile.
I reach for my sketchbook and flip to a blank page.
“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously.
“Sketching you.”
“Again?”
“Always.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t protest. Instead, she shifts slightly, letting me capture her exactly as she is—comfortable, real, beautiful.
I sketch in silence for a while, letting the soft hum of the apartment fill the space between us.
Then, without looking up, I ask, “Are you nervous about this weekend?”
She hesitates. “A little.”
I expected that. “Why?”
She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is quiet. “Because I’m not used to people doing things for me.”
That makes my chest tighten.
I hate that she’s been made to feel that way.
“Well, get used to it,” I say, looking up and meeting her eyes. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks at me like she wants to believe it. Like she almost does.
And for now, almost is enough.
This weekend, I’ll prove it to her.
"You're beautiful, always."
The words leave my lips before I even think about them.
Iris freezes. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her hoodie, and for a second, I wonder if I said the wrong thing. But I meant it—I always mean it.
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine, as if trying to find a lie.
But there isn’t one.
"You don’t have to say things like that," she murmurs, looking away.
I close my sketchbook and set it aside. "I want to say them. Because they’re true."
She exhales, running a hand through her hair. "You don’t get it, Eli. Some days, I don’t even feel real. Some days, I feel like I’m just… existing. Like a mess no one should have to deal with."
My heart clenches.
"Iris," I say gently, "you're not a mess. You're you. And I’ll remind you every day if I have to."
She swallows hard, her fingers gripping the sleeves of her hoodie. "What if one day you get tired of reminding me?"
I lean closer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then I'll remind you again. And again. As many times as you need."
She blinks rapidly, like she’s holding back something—fear, doubt, maybe even hope.
I lift my sketchbook and turn it toward her.
She gasps softly.
It’s her. Exactly as she is right now—hair slightly messy, oversized hoodie swallowing her small frame, eyes filled with emotions too heavy for words. But even in black and white, even in rough pencil strokes—she’s beautiful.
Just like she always is.
"I don’t just see you, Iris. I see you," I whisper.
She stares at the drawing, then at me.
And for the first time since I met her, she doesn’t look away.