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June 22 - June 23, 2025
Because, if she was being honest, romance novels were a fantasy. Not that she’d ever admit that to her mother, but that was what she loved about them. They were an escape. A vacation from the harsh reality that only zero-point-one percent of people in the world actually got a for-real HEA.
Her family watched her with partly amused, partly annoyed expressions on their faces, which was pretty much her childhood captured in a single scene. Wild-haired, nail-bitten Iris, up to her usual antics.
If Stevie had a brand, it was an underwhelming amalgam of anxiety and childish dreams she couldn’t seem to relinquish.
More and more lately, coming over to her parents’ house felt like undergoing a root canal—she felt exposed, judged for her choices, and left with a fierce need for some self-medication.
“Delilah Green didn’t care about anyone and consistently forgot the names of the women she slept with. Until she met Claire Sutherland.”
All Stevie had found was a failed relationship and a propensity to dress like a twelve-year-old boy.
Stefania was beautiful and sexy and a complete disaster. Iris couldn’t walk away now if she tried.
“Do you usually say exactly what you’re thinking?” “Hell yes. Life’s too short not to, and everyone will judge you, leave you, or tell you to go fuck yourself either way. So why not?”
Iris was sweet. A little hyper, but sweet. And gorgeous. God, Iris was so ridiculously beautiful, Stevie had a hard time breathing just thinking about her freckles, her red hair, her—
“It’s just . . . do you ever feel like the you you want to be isn’t the person anyone else wants?”
She simply was, with another disaster by her side—because Stevie was one hundred percent an adorable disaster—and it felt like that first gulp of cold water after a long hike.
God, the woman practically emanated sex. Stevie was pretty sure the only thing she ever emanated were stress hormones.
Iris tilted her head, swiped her thumbs over Stevie’s cheeks. “You’re sort of adorable, you know that?” Stevie just stared at her. Iris stared back. It felt like a lifetime of just . . . looking. And nothing about it felt fake at all.
“And Benedick,” Iris read from act 3, scene 1. “Love on; I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.”
Iris eyed Stevie’s hand, hesitating only a second before slipping her fingers into Stevie’s palm. The contact zinged up her arm, causing an eruption of goose bumps, which was ridiculous.
Romance was nothing but brain chemicals and some pretty words, a nice setting. That’s all it was. A fiction brains told to hearts.
Stevie came into her arms so willingly, so perfectly. Stevie was just an inch or two taller than Iris, just enough for Iris to press her mouth to Stevie’s shoulder. One of Stevie’s hands went into Iris’s hair, and fuck if Iris didn’t exhale at the touch. Didn’t swoon. Just a little.
“Stevie,” she said. “What . . . are you okay? What happened?” Stevie stepped into Iris’s space, no hesitations, hands sliding over her hips. She kicked the door closed with her boot, pulled Iris closer. “You happened,” she said before crushing her mouth to Iris’s.
“Damn. I’ve always wanted to fall madly in love with a vampire.”
“Show me what?” she asked one more time. “Stevie.” Stevie pressed her forehead to Iris’s. “That you’re worth loving.”
Stevie held her like that, tongue exploring Iris’s, her mouth sliding to Iris’s ear, her neck, all the while holding her face like Iris was some kind of treasure Stevie had been searching for and had finally, finally found.
“I’m just a girl standing in front of another girl, asking her to fuck her senseless.”
“Purple bearded irises,” Iris said, picking up a jar and pressing her face into the flowers. “How did you know these are my favorite?” Stevie shrugged. “Lucky guess? They’re all over your planners. Also, the name. I figured you’d love the name.” Iris laughed, plucking a single blossom from the jar and twirling it in her fingers. “I do. Plus, they look like vulvas, which I’m all about.”
“Nothing is too much for you.”
But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too.
I am your happily ever after.
Stevie was who Iris wanted. Stevie was Iris’s HEA.
Iris wasn’t broken after all. She was just . . . different. Changed by a person who’d finally gotten under her skin, under her heart, and made her so desperate to belong to someone, she barely recognized herself anymore.
Iris wasn’t broken. Iris Kelly was in love.
Yes, Stevie Scott would be just fine without Iris Kelly. But she wouldn’t be this. Completely alight with this woman who was wild and unpredictable, soft and vulnerable and sweet, so beautiful Stevie sometimes couldn’t look directly at her, like she was staring at the sun, dizzy and terrified and euphoric.
Seeing her now, here, flesh and blood, Stevie felt a tiny corner of her heart she’d convinced herself she could live without spark to life, enervating her blood, her bones, her skin. Stevie wanted Iris, and she didn’t care why it took Iris so long to get to this point, she didn’t care about anything except the way Iris was looking at her right now, her eyes wide and hopeful and scared, and Stevie couldn’t do anything but frame her face in her hands, swipe her thumbs over her cheeks.
“I spent a lot of time,” Iris went on, “convincing myself I wasn’t built to last, wasn’t built for romance, for love. But maybe . . .” Tears bloomed into her eyes. “Maybe I was just built for you.”
“You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I love thee.” “And do it with all thy heart,” Stevie said, sliding her nose along Iris’s throat.
“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest,” Iris said.
