"In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Robyn awoke before him as always and got breakfast ready. Their conversation last night took a toll on her, and they didn't scratch the surface of what the problem was, but they got somewhere. From what she understood his hesitation came from having a relationship that failed him and left him broken. His fear stemmed from having that being a repeat in his life, but she made sure to ensure that her intentions were pure. She wouldn't treat him the way others in the past did––– she was capable of loving, and he was the one she wanted to love.
While she was preparing breakfast, Robyn decided to roam around his house. Looking around, it was majestic and beautiful––– glass being the main design of it. She went inside one room, which had champagne glasses, wine glasses, etc. encased behind a glass frame, with a marble tabletop, and two mahogany chairs. Robyn wasn't surprised Chris had his own bar, and it actually made her laugh.
The next room was his art room, which had to be the largest room aside from his bedroom. Various pieces of art decorated the walls to the floor and the ones she was most interested in were his paintings as a child––– he seemed so happy about life, and it showed. The brightness of colors, his vision of nature popping through the canvas. Over the years, his art became more melancholic––– brushstrokes more deliberate, somber colors. It was as if he was losing his mind, but finding his soul... or trying to keep it intact. She couldn't figure it––– him out. Needless to say, there was still beauty in his work, but she rather him happy than anything else.
She went back to the living room where his chandelier hung atop and noticed the patio in the back. It was overlooking the city, and on the inside, she saw his pool, a few folding chairs, and the red roses planted all beginning to be covered in snow. This definitely was Chris' house and to his taste––– he clearly had an affinity for glass, which made the house more classy.
Once breakfast was ready, she went into his bedroom to wake him only to see the bed empty and neatly made. Thinking he probably was already eating, she was about to leave when she noticed a Glock 17 next to his pillow, but close where she laid her head at times. So many emotions, but anger and solemnity were at the heart of what she felt. Iris brought the gun with her, and watched him seated at the island eating with a fresh cup of tea made.
"If you wanna have a staring contest with me, you'll lose."
The amusement in his voice made her stomach turn. She knew he knew what it was she found, and why she was on the defense with him. "Christopher, why do you have this?"
He sipped his tea unbothered by her tone. "Why wouldn't I have it?"
"Now is not the time to be a wisecrack. Why was this where we sleep?!"
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Pests usually go into hibernation during the winter." He knew what she was referring to, and he hoped it would have prompted her to leave, but here she was. Truthfully speaking, he knew what she alluded to, and it didn't mean he'd ever commit the act. He couldn't. That's where the alcohol came in.
She slammed the gun in front of him, the loud bang ruining the silence in his home. He jumped, then bristled. The slam resembled a gunshot sound to him. "Don't do that again, Robyn."
If there was one thing he hated most it was noise––– he couldn't function around it, especially noises that resembled shots and explosions. It triggered emotions in him he tried keeping at bay, especially around her. Iris made a mental note in her head, but said nothing. He ran his hands down his face sighing. "All I wanna do is drink my tea in peace. After that, I have to work on the art I'll be showcasing for my art gallery, and I can't do that with you around."
