It said: "See? You smiled."
Ashcroft stared at the margin for a beat too long. He folded the notebook shut, precise and clean, but something in his chest stayed misaligned.
The next morning, he arrived early again. He wasn't even pretending it was habit anymore.
She came in late, again. Same bag, same chaos, same scent of peppermint and parchment. She dropped into her seat like the world was already mid-sentence.
"Right, let's pretend I didn't drop my ink bottle down the stairs."
His pen paused mid-word.
"You're late," he said, not even bothering to look up.
"Time is relative," she replied, mouth full of what might've been a biscuit. "Einstein. Eventually."
"It's 1893."
"Exactly. I'm ahead of my time."
He turned back to his notes. "Please don't chew during argument structuring."
She exaggerated the next bite.
Today, they weren't just preparing citations—they were finishing the paper. Ashcroft loathed collaborative writing. It disrupted his structure. Her ideas were erratic, but worse—they worked.
Iris tapped her quill twice and leaned over.
"You know, I've been thinking. We should open with contradiction. Something that stings."
He looked at her. "We are writing about determinism, not a stage play."
"Exactly. Let them feel cornered."
She slid a sheet toward him. Half diagram. Half chaos. At first glance: absurd. Second glance: alarmingly sound.
"You made a Venn diagram of... guilt?"
"And inevitability. Don't act like you hate it."
"I don't hate it," he muttered. "I resent how effective it is."
She leaned back, hands behind her head. "You're welcome."
They worked another hour—quieter now, but not silent.
He found himself watching the curve of her script again. It wasn't careful, but it was consistent. She wrote like she argued: with motion, wit, and the occasional sharp corner.
"You write like you think in motion," he said before he could stop himself.
She blinked. "What, messy and unstoppable?"
"I meant fast."
"Sure you did."
She added, "You read like you're afraid the words might run away."
He didn't reply. But he remembered that.
They finished the final annotations before sunset. Their joint argument—tight, unrelenting, and annoyingly persuasive—was complete. Ashcroft, as always, double-checked every citation. Iris, as always, ignored three of them on purpose just to watch him twitch.
As they packed up, she tilted her head.
"You always this polished? Even in your sleep?"
"I don't polish myself in my sleep."
She grinned. "Shame. I was hoping for a flaw."
Ashcroft watched her shoulder brush the doorway on her way out, as if she never quite judged distance properly. As if she moved through the world slightly misaligned—but completely unconcerned.
When he turned back to the desk, there was something tucked under his notebook.
A single page, torn from her notes.
Across it, in quick slanted cursive:
"Still think I'm chaotic?"
Beneath it: three perfectly reasoned bullet points dismantling his last theory.