The days leading up to the weekend passed in a blur of sketches and cautious exchanges between Iris and Cassian. Their project was beginning to take shape—a haunting yet beautiful piece that blended Cassian's sharp realism with Iris's evocative surrealism.
By Saturday, Cassian suggested they meet at his house to finalize their preliminary designs. When Iris arrived, she was surprised by how unassuming the Gray family home was—a modest two-story house nestled in a quiet neighborhood.
Cassian opened the door, his usual smirk replaced with something more neutral. "You made it. Come on in."
Inside, the house was neat but lived-in. Books lined the shelves, and the faint scent of coffee lingered in the air. Cassian led her to a room that doubled as a studio, complete with an easel, scattered canvases, and a small table littered with art supplies.
"Welcome to my creative chaos," he said, gesturing around.
Iris nodded politely, setting her sketchbook on the table. She hesitated before pulling out her notebook and writing a question:
Why do you care so much about this project?
Cassian read it, his expression hard to read. He sat down, leaning back in his chair. "You mean, why don't I just phone it in like half the people in this school would?"
She nodded.
He looked away, running a hand through his hair. "Because it's one of the few things that feels real, you know? Art doesn't lie. It shows people what they don't want to admit about themselves. And maybe… I need that honesty as much as anyone else."
His voice had softened, and Iris found herself watching him more closely. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—it was like seeing cracks in a carefully constructed facade.
"But enough about me," he said abruptly, straightening. "Let's focus on the piece."
They worked for hours, refining details and bouncing ideas off each other. Despite her initial reservations, Iris found herself enjoying the rhythm they'd developed. Cassian had an uncanny ability to articulate what she struggled to express, and she admired his dedication, even if he masked it with sarcasm.
At one point, Cassian paused, studying a sketch Iris had just completed. It depicted a figure standing in front of a fractured mirror, their reflection distorted and incomplete.
"This is incredible," he said, tracing the lines with his finger. "But it feels… personal."
Iris stiffened, her hand hovering over her notebook.
He looked at her, his tone softer. "Am I wrong?"
She hesitated before writing a single word: Yes.
Cassian didn't press further, but the weight of his silence spoke volumes.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in warm, golden light, Iris found herself feeling strangely at ease. She hadn't expected to connect with someone like Cassian, yet here they were, building something together that felt deeply significant.
Just as they were wrapping up for the day, a sharp knock echoed through the house.
Cassian frowned, standing to answer the door. Moments later, raised voices drifted into the room.
"You can't keep ignoring this, Cassian!" a woman's voice snapped.
"I said I'd deal with it, didn't I?" Cassian shot back, his tone laced with frustration.
Iris froze, unsure whether to stay or leave. She peeked around the corner to see a woman in her early forties, her sharp features resembling Cassian's.
"This isn't just about you," the woman said. "You need to stop running away from—"
"Enough!" Cassian cut her off, his voice low but fierce. "I'll handle it."
The woman glared at him before storming out, slamming the door behind her.
When Cassian returned to the studio, his usual composure was gone, replaced by a simmering anger. He avoided Iris's gaze as he packed up their materials.
"Sorry about that," he muttered.
Iris wanted to ask, but she didn't know how. Instead, she wrote: Are you okay?
Cassian glanced at her note and let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Just… family stuff."
The subject was clearly closed, but the encounter left an impression on Iris. For all his confidence and charm, Cassian was carrying his own burdens—burdens he kept tightly locked away.
As she walked home that evening, Iris couldn't shake the feeling that their collaboration was about more than art. Cassian wasn't just helping her find her voice—he was starting to reveal his own.