The final round of the Young Artists Showcase loomed closer, bringing with it a mix of anticipation and dread. Iris and Cassian's project, now more than halfway complete, had begun to take on a life of its own—a tapestry of raw emotion and intricate symbolism that reflected their shared struggles.
But with progress came pressure. The whispers around school had turned into full-blown speculation. Nathan Hayes, ever the instigator, fanned the flames with his snide remarks.
"Think you'll actually win, Blackwood?" he sneered in the hallway one afternoon, blocking her path. "Or are you just riding on Gray's coattails?"
Iris froze, her pulse quickening. Before she could react, Cassian appeared, his presence like a shield.
"Back off, Nathan," he said, his voice cold.
Nathan smirked. "Relax, Gray. Just pointing out the obvious. Not everyone has your... talents."
Cassian's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he placed a reassuring hand on Iris's shoulder and guided her away.
When they reached the art room, Cassian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I swear, that guy knows how to get under my skin."
Iris scribbled on her notebook: Don't let him ruin this for us.
Cassian read the note, his tense expression softening. "You're right. He's not worth it."
Still, the encounter left a lingering unease.
.
That evening, Cassian invited Iris to his home studio for a final brainstorming session. She hesitated at first, unsure of stepping further into his personal world, but curiosity won out.
Cassian's home was modest but inviting, with walls adorned by his artwork—abstract pieces filled with vibrant colors and chaotic energy.
"Welcome to my mess," he said, grinning as he cleared a space for her to sit.
As they worked, Cassian opened up further about his life. He told her about his father's absence and his mother's sacrifices, how art had become his way of coping.
"I used to think that if I was good enough at this, it would fix everything," he admitted, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But now, I'm not so sure."
Iris listened intently, her heart aching for him. She wanted to tell him he *was* enough, that his art was more than just a coping mechanism—it was a gift. But her silence felt like an invisible wall she couldn't break through.
Instead, she reached for her sketchbook, drawing a small bird breaking free from a cage. When she showed it to him, his eyes softened.
"That's beautiful," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
.
The next day, they returned to the textile mill to finish weaving the threads into their project. The mill, once a place of chaos, had become their sanctuary—a space where their creativity could flourish.
But as they worked, a storm began brewing outside. The sound of rain against the old metal roof was soothing at first, but soon it turned into a deafening roar.
"We should probably wrap this up," Cassian said, glancing at the darkening sky.
As they packed up their materials, lightning illuminated the room, followed by a loud crash of thunder. Iris flinched, memories of another storm—the one that had taken her brother—flooding her mind.
Cassian noticed her trembling and stepped closer. "Hey, are you okay?"
She shook her head, her breathing shallow.
Without hesitation, Cassian took her hands in his, grounding her. "You're safe," he said softly. "I'm here."
His words, coupled with the warmth of his touch, pulled her back from the brink. She met his gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
For a moment, the world around them faded, the storm outside a distant echo.
"Iris," Cassian murmured, his voice laced with something she couldn't quite place.
Before he could say more, the storm intensified, snapping them out of the moment.
"We should go," Cassian said, his voice steady but reluctant.
As they stepped out into the rain, Iris couldn't shake the feeling that something between them had shifted—something unspoken but undeniable.