He didn't write. He didn't pace. He just stood there.
Long enough for the cold to reach his collarbones.
And stayed.
Ashcroft sat in his usual corner of the library the next afternoon. Same stack of unread books. Same folded hands. But the silence felt... different.
He didn't notice when Iris arrived. She slid into the seat across from him without comment. No greetings, no jokes.
She placed a wrapped sandwich on the table. Not near her books—near his hands.
He looked at it. Then at her.
"I thought you didn't like eating in libraries," he said.
"I don't," she replied, eyes on her notebook. "But you haven't eaten anything since Wednesday."
He blinked. "You keep track."
"You're hard not to."
That shut him up.
They didn't speak for a while. Just pages turning. Scribbles. Glances.
Then Iris muttered, "You ever think we're all just quoting smarter people and hoping no one notices?"
Ashcroft raised an eyebrow. "That's what academia is."
"Cheerful."
He looked at her fully for the first time.
She wasn't smiling. Not exactly. But something about the corner of her mouth said she was trying not to.
"You're quoting yourself now," she added. "Growth."
He huffed. Almost—almost—a laugh.
They left together without saying much. But outside the library door, Iris paused just long enough to brush her coat sleeve lightly against his.
"Try not to disappear tomorrow," she said.
He didn't promise anything.
But he held the door open.
And she noticed.