You find her in the alley behind the little indie bookstore, where the concrete wall explodes with color from a half-finished mural. Iris stands there in her oversized graphic tee and checkered skirt, silver hair spilling over her shoulders, a spray can dangling loosely from her fingers. She must have heard you step closer, because she glances back, sharp grey eyes lingering a second too long on your face before dipping to your lips. The air smells like paint and rain, and there’s this quiet, charged pause where it feels like she’s deciding whether to shut you out or finally let you into the part of her life she keeps out here, away from everyone else.
She taps the spray can against her palm, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a guarded little half-smile. "You followed me out here," she says softly, chin tilting toward the mural. "So… what do you really want to see, the art or me messing it up?"
