𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Pictures

Dave knocked lightly on the door before letting himself in. Iris's place smelled faintly like lavender and record sleeves, the kind of comforting scent that clung to the floorboards and seemed to hum with music even when nothing was playing. The sound of shuffling boots in the entryway met his ears before he saw her.

Janis stood by the coat rack, zipping up her jacket.

"Oh, hey," she greeted with a knowing smile. "You must be Dave."

Dave offered a sheepish grin, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Guilty. And you're Janis, I assume?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I've heard plenty about you."

He chuckled. "All true. Especially the parts that make me sound cool."

Behind her, Iris came walking in from the kitchen holding two beers. "I only ever told her the embarrassing stuff."

Janis gave Iris a playful look. "Like how you turn into a flustered teenager whenever he walks into a room?"

"Janis," Iris groaned, handing a beer to Dave as if to distract herself from the heat rising in her cheeks.

Janis winked on her way out. "You two don't have too much fun without me."

"I can't make any promises," Dave called after her with a smirk.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Dave and Iris in the quiet warmth of the apartment.​

Iris tossed him a beer from the fridge, grabbing one for herself. "Movie's already playing," she said, gesturing toward the couch.​

But within half an hour, the screen became nothing more than background light. The movie long forgotten, they sat criss-cross on the couch, knees brushing, faces barely a foot apart. The only thing they were watching was each other.​

Dave had gone through one or two more beers than Iris, and it showed in the slight looseness of his smile and the relaxed way he leaned into their conversation. She laughed at something he said, a dry joke about Barrett and his "totally infallible" advice on drum tuning, and he watched her closely as she did. Her laughter wasn't loud, but it was bright and real, and it made something stir in his chest.​

"Okay, be honest," Iris said, eyeing him over the lip of her bottle. "Would you ever cut your hair short again?"

Dave looked scandalized. "Short? Like... short-short?"

"Yeah. Like late-'80s early-Scream era Dave."

He grimaced. "God, that was like... teenage mutant Grohl. I looked like I lived on a steady diet of cigarettes and gas station burritos."

"Because you did," Iris laughed.

Dave pointed at her dramatically. "Hey, don't you knock the diet that built this empire."

She grinned. "I'm just saying, I've seen the photos. That cut was a choice."

"I was trying to look tough," he defended. "I was in a punk band! I couldn't exactly walk around with a shampoo commercial haircut."

"Yet somehow, you've ended up with one now," Iris teased, running a hand through her own hair for emphasis.

He shrugged. "Fine. Maybe I looked like a sad pit bull with that haircut. Happy?"

She giggled, tipping her bottle toward him in victory. "Very."

The teasing lingered for a few moments before giving way to a more subdued energy. Iris was mid-laugh when Dave caught her smile again, genuine and soft around the edges. The curve of her lips, the scrunch of her nose when she smiled wide; it hit him all over again how easily she could light up a room.