Ashcroft hated being assigned anything.
He arrived at the Philosophy Society's meeting late—not by mistake, but out of practiced contempt. When he entered, a few heads turned, none surprised. He looked every bit the man they expected: buttoned to the throat, gloved, unreadable.
Professor Sallis stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, spectacles in one hand. "We've announced the partners for the term research cycle," she said. "Mr. Ashcroft, you'll be working with Miss Evelyn."
The room went still.
Iris, seated near the window, blinked once. Then turned to face him slowly—like she already knew. Her eyes weren't smug. Just curious.
Ashcroft's jaw didn't move, but a muscle near his temple tightened.
Someone near the fireplace chuckled under their breath.
"Surely, Professor," Ashcroft said, calm and sharp, "this is an error."
"It is deliberate," Sallis replied. "You're matched by academic performance."
"Ah," he said. "So I'm being punished."
"No. You're being challenged."
Iris's pen twirled idly between h rker fingers. She leaned back in her chair, voice mild: "I'll try to keep up."
He didn't look at her.
The study room they were assigned was small. Too small. One desk, two chairs, and a window that didn't open all the way. Outside, the sky was bruised with gray.
Ashcroft placed his books in a stack with surgical precision. Iris dropped her satchel and let it slump sideways, half unzipped, papers poking out.
They sat. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was strategic.
She spoke first. "I read your paper on philosophical fatalism. It's quite clean."
"Clean," he repeated.
"Polished. Bloodless."
He looked up. "You'd prefer sentiment over precision?"
"I'd prefer honesty over theater."
He didn't respond. He opened a book and began writing in the margin.
She glanced at his handwriting, and for a second, her eyebrows lifted. "Cursive," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Of course you'd have handwriting that looks like it judges me back."
She watched him. "You always write in the margins?"
"When it matters."
She slid one of her own pages toward him. Her handwriting was fast and looping. A little messy. "That's my rough. Tear it apart."
He scanned it. Frowned. "You argue from the gut. It reads like you're fighting yourself."
She smiled. "I am."
The hours passed like a held breath. Ashcroft wrote in silence. Iris scribbled in bursts. Neither looked at the other much, but they moved in a rhythm neither acknowledged.
At one point, her pen ran out of ink. She held it in the air.
He slid his across the desk without speaking.
She took it. Their fingers brushed.
Neither said anything.
Later, when the rain started, the window fogged over. The room grew dim. Iris reached for the lamp. He beat her to it.
She didn't thank him.
He didn't expect her to.
As they packed up, she paused by the door.
"You don't like me," she said casually.
"I don't know you."
She tilted her head. "But you've already decided."
He glanced at her—quick, sharp. Then back to his coat. "I've decided that indiscipline is contagious."
"Good thing I'm the cure."
She walked out first.
He stood there for a moment, alone in the study room, staring at the pen she left behind.
It was the one he gave her.
He didn't pick it up.