The morning after the confrontation at the textile mill, Iris found herself replaying the events in her mind. The image of Cassian's clenched fists, the fury in his voice as he defended their work, stayed with her. But more than that, it was the way his composure had crumbled afterward, revealing a vulnerability that mirrored her own.
At school, Cassian waited for her by the art room door. His usual grin was absent, replaced by a weary expression.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"
Iris nodded, following him inside.
Once they were alone, he let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "About last night... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let things get out of hand."
Iris frowned, pulling out her notebook. You were protecting us.
"Yeah, but at what cost?" Cassian muttered. "Nathan's not going to let this go. And I can't afford to lose focus now—not with everything riding on this project."
He slumped into a chair, his usual confidence replaced by self-doubt. Iris hesitated, then set her notebook aside and reached for her sketchbook. Flipping to a blank page, she began to draw, her pencil moving with deliberate strokes.
When she finished, she held it up: a simple image of two hands intertwined with threads, frayed but unbroken.
Cassian stared at the drawing, his lips curving into a faint smile. "You always know how to say the right thing, don't you?"
They spent the rest of the afternoon repairing the damage Nathan had caused to their project. The work was slow but soothing, their shared focus creating a sense of calm.
As the days passed, their bond continued to grow. Cassian started opening up more about his family—how his father's absence had left a void he struggled to fill, how his mother's expectations weighed on him.
"It's like I'm supposed to be this perfect son who never makes mistakes," he admitted one evening. "But I'm just... me. And sometimes, that doesn't feel like enough."
Iris listened intently, her heart aching for him. She wanted to tell him that he *was* enough, that his flaws made him real, but her silence felt like a wall she couldn't break through.
Instead, she showed him through her art. Each sketch she created reflected pieces of their journey—moments of struggle, resilience, and connection.
Cassian began to notice the patterns in her work. One day, as they sat side by side in the art room, he pointed to a drawing of a figure standing in a storm, threads of light cutting through the darkness.
"This is me, isn't it?" he asked softly.
Iris hesitated, then nodded.
"And this," he continued, gesturing to a second figure beside the first, "is you."
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't deny it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Cassian leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've changed me, Iris. I don't know how, but you have."
Her heart raced, the intensity of his gaze making her feel both exposed and understood. Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Cassian straightened, his expression guarded once more as the door opened to reveal their art teacher, Ms. Hargrove.
"Good news," she announced, smiling. "The competition organizers loved your preliminary sketches. They're moving you to the final round."
The weight of her words settled over them. This was what they'd been working toward, but the pressure suddenly felt immense.
"Congrats," Ms. Hargrove added, her eyes twinkling. "You're on the verge of something amazing."
After she left, Cassian turned to Iris, his smile returning. "We've got this," he said, his confidence infectious.
Iris nodded, a spark of determination igniting within her. Together, they were stronger than the obstacles they faced.