"I'm not used to walking with people," Iris said.
Adam didn't answer right away. He kept his hands in his coat pockets, his steps in time with hers, as if they'd done this before.
"You don't seem the type," he said finally.
She looked up at him, a little startled.
"What type is that?"
"Quiet. Private. Always half in your head."
She flushed. "That obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows what to look for."
They turned a corner. Her bag rustled with the sound of fabric and metal clasps. He said nothing about the way her shoulder slumped beneath the weight.
"You're not from this part of the city, are you?" she asked.
"No."
"Why were you here, then?"
He glanced sideways. "Doesn't matter."
She let it go.
After a few more silent steps, she asked, "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Distant. Blunt. Kind of... cold."
"Yes," he said. Then added, "Most people take offense."
"I don't."
He looked at her. Not just glanced—looked. Long enough that she had to turn away first.
"I like the quiet," she offered, softer now. "It's easier. Safer."
He nodded, just once. "Noise leaves too many openings."
They kept walking.
"I had a dog once," she said out of nowhere.
Adam didn't speak.
"He used to follow me around the house with this little rag in his mouth. He thought it was a treasure."
"What happened to him?"
She hesitated. "He died. Long time ago."
"Did it matter?"
She stopped walking. Turned to face him.
"Yes," she said. "It did."
He didn't move. Didn't apologize. Just stared at her like she'd passed a test.
Then he said, "I was forced to kill mine."
Silence.
He waited for her to recoil.
She didn't.
She didn't speak at first. Just stood there, stunned.
Then her eyes softened—wide, wet, and heavy with something he didn't expect.
"That's…" Her voice broke, sharp and small. "That's the worst thing I've ever heard."
Adam's brow furrowed slightly.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, voice thickening. "I don't care how long ago it was. That's— That's not something a person should ever have to do."
Her breathing hitched. She looked away, biting her lip, blinking too fast.
And then she cried.
Not loud, not messy—just a quiet flood of tears she couldn't hold back anymore. Like something inside her cracked open at the thought of a child being made to destroy something they loved.
She pressed her sleeve to her face, shaking her head. "Sorry. God, I'm sorry—I cry too easily. I just—Jesus. That's so cruel."
Adam didn't move.
He didn't know what to do.
No one had ever cried for him before. Not really. Not without disgust, or pity, or silence. But here she was, crying like his pain hurt her, too.
"Iris," he said, slower this time.
She dropped her arm. Her eyes were red. "What kind of person makes a child do that?"
He was quiet for a long beat.
"The kind that believes love is weakness."
Her mouth twisted. "Then they've never felt it."
Adam looked at her—really looked—and something in him shifted.
She was small. Fragile in every sense. But there was nothing fake about the emotion pouring from her. It wasn't for show. She wasn't manipulating him. She wasn't trying to get something out of him.
She just felt.
And he hated that part of himself—the part that wanted to reach for her.
"I'm not telling you this to earn sympathy," he said flatly.
"I know."
"I don't want your pity."
"You don't have it," she said. "You have my heart breaking, but not pity. There's a difference."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he looked away. His jaw was tight. His posture still composed—but his silence had a tremor in it now.
The silence stretched between them, warm and heavy and trembling with something neither of them had words for yet.
Iris wiped her eyes again, embarrassed, but he hadn't moved away. He hadn't laughed. He hadn't looked at her like she was weak.
She almost wished he had.
"I shouldn't have said all that," she murmured.
"You did," he said. "And I didn't stop you."
And then—
Bzzzzt.
His phone vibrated.
Adam didn't move to check it. The screen lit up again. A second time. Then a third.
He exhaled, short and irritated.
"Sorry," he muttered, stepping back half a pace and pulling the phone from his coat.
Iris didn't recognize the name on the screen, but the tone in his voice when he answered said more than words could.
"This is Wilson."
A pause. His face tightened slightly.
"Now?" Another pause. "...Understood."
He ended the call without looking at her again.
"I have to go," he said, already tucking the phone away.
She swallowed. "Is everything okay?"
"No."
He didn't explain.
Instead, he stepped closer again—just for a second—and looked at her in a way that made her stomach tighten.
"You feel too much," he said quietly.
She frowned. "Is that a problem?"
His lips barely curved. "Only for people who don't know what to do with it."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
No goodbye.
No promise to return.
Just footsteps fading into the crowd.
Leaving her there on the sidewalk with too many feelings and no idea what the hell had just happened.