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.
But he didn't look away either.
The rain outside had softened into a whisper against the windows. Ashcroft turned from the desk, buttoned his coat with one clean motion, and walked out—sharper than the silence behind him.
The next afternoon, the Philosophy Society met again.
Ashcroft arrived before the others. His coat was dry. His notes were perfect. He stood at the front, spine straight, eyes scanning the paper like it hadn't kept him up the night before.
Professor Sallis glanced up from her chair. "Ready, Mr. Ashcroft?"
He nodded. "As always."
The room filled slowly. Iris arrived just before it began, a pencil tucked behind her ear, sleeves rolled up like she'd been doing something messy. She didn't look at him. Just took her seat, second row, center.
He began presenting.
Their joint theory. Structured, clean, impressive. His delivery was precise, but not cold—not today. There was something almost... loose at the edges.
"Crooked truth," he said, midway through.
A familiar phrase. Hers.
He kept going. Didn't pause. Didn't flinch.
But from the second row, Iris tapped her pencil twice on her notebook. Not loud. Not pointed. Just... deliberate.
He heard it. Of course he did.
After the lecture, most students left in their usual haze of semi-admiration. Iris remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, sketching something idly in the margins of her notes.
He gathered his things. Pretended not to look.
She didn't speak to him. But her expression? Calm. Amused. A little too amused.
Then she stood, stretched like a cat who'd spent too long in sunlight, and left without a word.
That evening, he returned to the study room to retrieve a missing book. The space was quiet, dim, untouched.
Except one book sat open on the desk—his copy of Metaphysical Constructs.
A line was circled. Her handwriting beneath it:
"You don't mind stealing. Just pretending you didn't."
No signature. No smiley face. Just that.
He didn't touch it.
Later, in his room, he rewrote his lecture notes—not to edit, not to refine. Just to reclaim them.
His cursive was clean, as always. But a blot of ink spread halfway down the page, where his hand paused too long.
He closed the book. Watched the blot fade into paper.
The next morning, Iris passed him in the corridor.
No smile. No pause. No greeting.
Just this, under her breath:
"Getting better at stealing, Ashcroft."
She didn't stop.
He did.