"I didn't expect you to answer."
Julian's voice came through the phone calm, familiar, and completely unprepared for what it did to her chest.
Iris stood in the narrow hallway of the apartment she had sworn she would never return to, her suitcase still upright beside her leg, her coat still on, her fingers cold from gripping the phone too tightly. Outside, the city moved the way it always had, loud and impatient and indifferent to private moments. Inside, everything felt paused, as if the walls themselves were waiting to hear what she would say next.
"I wasn't sure I should," she replied.
There was a brief silence. Not the awkward kind. The kind that had always existed between them, filled with unsaid things that neither of them rushed to disturb.
"I heard you were back," Julian said finally. "I thought it might be true. I didn't know if calling was a mistake."
Iris leaned her shoulder against the wall, closing her eyes. "You were never bad at mistakes."
"That's not fair."
"No," she agreed softly. "It isn't."
She ended the call before either of them could say something that would make it harder to breathe. The screen went dark, reflecting her own face back at her, older than she remembered, steadier than she felt. She slipped the phone into her coat pocket and stood there for another moment, listening to the hum of electricity through the walls, the distant sound of traffic, the muffled voices of neighbors who did not know her and did not care why she had returned.
When she finally stepped inside, the apartment greeted her with a familiarity that felt almost intrusive. The scent of clean linen and old wood. The soft creak of the floor near the kitchen. The faint shadow on the wall where a framed photograph used to hang before she took it down and never put it back up again.
She moved slowly, as though speed might trigger a memory she was not ready to face. Her suitcase rolled across the floor with a quiet complaint, stopping near the couch. She did not sit. Sitting would mean staying, even if only for a night.
The mirror above the console table caught her reflection. Iris paused, studying herself. The woman looking back did not look like someone who ran anymore. She looked like someone who had learned how to stand very still and let storms pass around her.
She shrugged out of her coat and placed it neatly over the back of the chair. Old habits surfaced easily. She washed her hands in the small bathroom off the hall, noticing how the light flickered for a second before settling, just as it always had. When she turned off the tap, she rested her palms on the sink and exhaled.
This was supposed to be temporary.
That was what she had told herself when she booked the ticket, when she packed one suitcase instead of two, when she told her sister she would only be gone a few weeks. Temporary meant safe. Temporary meant she could leave again without consequences.
The knock at the door shattered that fragile illusion.
It was not loud. It was not hesitant. It was the kind of knock that assumed it would be answered.
Iris froze, her breath catching halfway out. She stared at the bathroom door as if it might open on its own and offer her an explanation. No one was supposed to know she had arrived today. She had been careful about that.
The knock came again.
Her pulse moved into her throat. She walked to the door slowly, each step deliberate, each sound amplified in the quiet apartment. When she placed her hand on the handle, she hesitated, a memory flickering through her mind of another night, another door, another choice she had made too quickly.
She opened it anyway.
Julian stood on the other side, his coat unbuttoned, his hair slightly damp from the evening mist. He looked exactly as he always had and nothing like she remembered. Time had sharpened him. His posture was looser, his expression more controlled, but his eyes were the same. Observant. Patient. Dangerous in their calm.
"I wasn't sure you would open the door," he said.
"I wasn't sure you would come."
"I wasn't sure you would stay," he replied.
The words settled between them, heavy and unexamined. Iris stepped aside, giving him space to enter without quite inviting him in. He crossed the threshold anyway, as though he had never learned how to do otherwise.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
They stood there for a moment, facing each other in the dim light of the hallway, neither of them reaching out, neither of them retreating. Julian's gaze moved over her slowly, not possessive, not indulgent, but thorough, as if confirming something he had been holding in his mind for years.
"You look different," he said.
"So do you."
"I suppose we were meant to."
"Perhaps."
He glanced around the apartment. "You kept the place."
"For now."
"For now," he echoed.
They moved into the living room without discussing it, instinct guiding them the way it always had. Julian removed his coat and draped it over the chair with a familiarity that made Iris's chest tighten. He did not sit until she did, and even then, he chose the armchair rather than the couch, leaving a careful distance between them.
"I didn't come to interrogate you," he said. "I just wanted to see if you were real."
"I am," she replied. "Unfortunately."
A faint smile touched his mouth and vanished just as quickly. "You left without saying goodbye."
"I know."
"You said you needed space."
"I did."
"You didn't say how much."
"I didn't know."
He studied her for a long moment. "And now?"
She looked down at her hands, at the faint scar near her thumb from a careless cut years ago. "Now I'm here."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"No," she admitted. "It doesn't."
The room felt smaller than it had earlier, the walls pressing in as though drawn by their proximity. Julian leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Iris," he said, her name steady on his tongue, "I need to know why you came back."
She lifted her gaze to meet his. "Do you really?"
"Yes."
"Even if you don't like the answer?"
His jaw tightened briefly before relaxing again. "Especially then."
She considered him carefully, this man who had never raised his voice, who had never begged her to stay, who had let her go with a restraint that had hurt more than anger ever could.
"I came back because I was tired of running," she said slowly. "And because there are things you cannot outrun forever."
Julian did not respond immediately. He leaned back, folding his hands together, absorbing her words without interrupting.
"And you," she continued, her voice quieter now, "why did you come tonight?"
"Because you called," he said simply. "Even if you didn't mean to."
The truth of that lingered between them.
Outside, a car horn blared, followed by laughter drifting up from the street. Life continued as though nothing extraordinary was happening inside that apartment. Iris stood, unable to sit still any longer, and moved toward the window.
"You should go," she said, not turning around.
Julian rose as well, stopping a few steps behind her. "Do you want me to?"
She closed her eyes. The city lights blurred beyond the glass, a mosaic of movement and possibility.
"I don't know," she admitted.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him without being touched. His presence pressed against her awareness, not demanding, not claiming, but undeniable.
"I waited," he said quietly. "I didn't know what I was waiting for. I just knew I wasn't done."
Her breath hitched. "Neither was I."
The admission hung there, dangerous and unfinished.
Julian exhaled slowly. "I'll go," he said. "For tonight. But Iris, if you stay, really stay, we cannot pretend this never mattered."
She turned to face him then, her expression steady despite the storm inside her chest. "I know."
He nodded once, accepting that answer for now. At the door, he paused, his hand resting on the handle.
"You always leave before things break," he said, not accusing, just stating a fact. "This time feels different."
She met his gaze. "This time, I didn't."
Julian opened the door and stepped into the hallway, leaving the apartment quiet once more.
Iris stood there long after he was gone, the echo of his presence lingering in the air. She moved to the couch and sat, finally allowing herself to sink into the cushions, her body heavy with the weight of choices she could no longer postpone.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A message from an unknown number lit up the screen.
We need to talk. I know you're back.
Iris stared at the words, her pulse quickening.
She did not reply.
Not yet.