Ep 12: Barely Said , Barely Meant.

He didn't answer.

But he stayed a second longer than necessary.

She noticed.

And didn't go inside right away.

The next afternoon, they sat outside the café near the east courtyard.

Iris stirred her tea too long. Ashcroft noticed.

"You're not drinking that."

"I'm waiting for it to cool. Like a civilized person."

"It's lukewarm."

"You're lukewarm," she said, then smiled into her cup like she didn't mean it.

Ashcroft didn't respond. But his fingers tapped once against the table—like a pause, not quite a reaction.

Iris leaned forward later, chin resting in her palm. "You know, it's kind of tragic how hard you try to pretend you're unreadable."

Ashcroft didn't look up from his book. "I don't pretend."

"You do. But it's cute."

His eyes flicked toward her. Just a second.

"Don't worry," she added. "It's only tragic in the poetic sense."

On their way back, she reached over without a word and plucked one of his gloves off.

He stopped. Looked at her hand holding it.

She turned it over casually. "Hmm. Lined. Fancy."

"I need that."

"No, you need plausible deniability. I'm just helping."

Ashcroft didn't say anything. Just kept walking.

She kept the glove.

That evening, in his flat, he sat at the edge of his bed.

He looked at his hand. The one without the glove.

It was colder than it should have been.

But not uncomfortable.

And in the drawer nearby, Victor's letter still hadn't been opened.

He didn't reach for it.

Just stayed there, fingers flexing slightly—like they remembered something they hadn't held onto.