The class was in session, and the teacher was passionately explaining the intricacies of art—the colors used, the ideas behind the strokes, and the emotions they conveyed. His voice echoed through the room, but Iris, slouched in her seat, let out a yawn, barely suppressing her boredom.

She leaned toward her friend and whispered, "They will never be able to beat Alaric."

However, her voice, though hushed, didn't go unnoticed.

"Did you say something, Miss Iris?" the teacher’s voice cut through the room, making heads turn toward her.

Iris straightened up instantly, her eyes widening. "No, sir," she replied swiftly, hoping to brush off the attention.

The teacher eyed her for a moment before tilting his head. "I suppose you're getting bored, then?"

Before she could come up with an excuse, he continued, "You’re free to leave if it's boring you."

Iris perked up at that, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Can I?" she asked, almost too eagerly, already picturing herself escaping this dull lecture.

But the teacher smirked. "No."

Her excitement died instantly. "But you just said—"

"I said it because I wanted to hear the truth," he interjected, his voice sharp. He crossed his arms and stared her "Tell me, what exactly is boring about this?"

Iris hesitated for a moment before shrugging. "I don’t know... It’s just not as interesting as Alaric’s work. His paintings have depth, curiosity, mystery. They don’t just show art—they feel like art. This? This is just a normal painting. I don’t understand why you’re calling it art at all."

A few students gasped softly, some exchanging glances, waiting to see how the teacher would react.

The teacher’s expression didn’t waver. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his tone challenging. "If you know so much about what art should be, why don’t you show us? Why don’t you create something that has this ‘depth’ and ‘mystery’ you speak of?"

Iris blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, you," he confirmed. "You seem to have strong opinions about what makes real art, so let’s see if you can back them up. You have two weeks to create your own painting and present it to the class."

Iris frowned. "But, sir, I’m new here."

He raised a brow. "You’re new to this university, not to art. Before criticizing someone else's work, you should be able to judge your own."

She let out a short laugh. "Don’t tell me this painting is yours and my words just bruised your ego."

His expression darkened, his patience snapping. "Get out."

Iris’s smirk faltered. "I was just—"

"I said, get out." His voice was cold, unyielding.

A tense silence filled the room. Iris, gripping her bag, rose from her seat. Just as she reached the door, she turned back and met his gaze.

"You should learn to take criticism, sir. It helps in improving," she remarked before stepping out.

The teacher didn’t look away. "When you submit your painting, we’ll see if you can take judgment yourself."

A small smirk played on Iris’s lips. "Sure," she said before walking out, leaving behind a classroom thick with tension.

........

Iris and Alaric were on their way home. The cool evening breeze whispered through the open car windows, carrying with it the soft hum of the city. Iris leaned her head against the seat, her eyes absorbing the passing scenery, while Alaric, in contrast, was absorbed in watching her.

A comfortable silence lingered between them until Alaric finally broke it.

"I heard you got into an argument with your teacher today," he said, his voice laced with curiosity.

Iris blinked and turned to him. "Where did you hear that from?"

Alaric smirked. "Not gonna lie, I heard it with my own ears."

Her brows lifted. "You heard that?"

"Yes, I did," he confirmed. "Why? You didn’t want me to?"

Iris scoffed lightly. "That wasn’t an argument. I just expressed my point of view, and he took it to heart." She rolled her eyes. "I don’t get why some people can’t handle criticism. Instead of getting angry, they should use it to improve."

Alaric hummed in response. "That rarely happens, Iris. You might be one of those who use criticism to grow, but most artists—have an obsession with their work. The meaning behind their art is something only they truly understand. And when others fail to see its worth, it frustrates them."

She glanced at him thoughtfully. "Has it ever happened to you?"

Alaric’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel. "Yeah, it has."

Iris tilted her head. "But your art is perfect. Who would even criticize you?"

He let out a short laugh. "People do."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "So what do you do? Criticize them back or try to improve?"

Alaric’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Neither. I don’t waste my time proving them wrong with words. Instead, I show them—make them feel the depth of my art, make them experience every emotion I poured into it. Regret. Pain. Desperation. I turn them into my art, Iris. And by the time I’m done, they don’t just understand it. They live it." His gaze locked onto hers, intense and unwavering.

Iris felt a chill run down her spine, but she masked it with a smirk. "Oh? So in the end, they must end up liking your work, huh?"

Alaric’s smirk deepened. "They’re left with no choice but to like it."

Just then, he pulled the car to a stop. "Your house is here."

Iris glanced at the familiar sight of her home and sighed. "With you, time just flies."

Alaric chuckled. "See you tomorrow."

She hesitated for a second before blurting, "Can I come over?"

His brows lifted slightly as he turned to her.

Iris bit her lip before explaining, "I want to see more of your work. The last one you showed me was so mesmerizing… Cameras can’t capture the true depth of your art. I want to see them up close."

Alaric studied her for a moment before nodding. "Why not? Sure."

A pleased smile crossed her lips. "Then I’ll be there in an hour."

"Sure," he replied smoothly.

With a satisfied nod, Iris stepped out of the car, turning back briefly to wave at him. "Okay, see you soon."

Alaric returned the gesture before driving off, leaving her standing there, anticipation buzzing in the air.

........

"She’s coming over. Oh God." Alaric ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth in front of his girlfriend. His heart pounded in his chest, excitement buzzing through his veins.

"Am I looking good? Should I change?" He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothing out his shirt. "No… I think it's fine. Yeah, it's fine."

"I should arrange them—the ones I really want her to see, the ones I want her to feel, to understand on her own." A slow smile crept onto his lips. "You don’t know how happy I am right now."

He turned slightly, leaning over his girlfriend.

But she remained still. Cold. Motionless.

Her lifeless body lay inside the freezer, eyes closed, lips pale, frozen in time.

Alaric sighed, tilting his head as he studied her. "You never get happy for me." His voice dropped to a whisper, his fingers tracing the icy surface. "You must be jealous now, huh?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Whatever. I don’t have time for you." He straightened, stepping back. "I need to get my art room ready."

Without another glance, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the room—and her—in eerie silence.

........

She stood in front of the mirror, her entire bed covered in a chaotic mess of dresses. One by one, she picked them up, holding each against her body, scrutinizing her reflection.

“No, not this one,” she muttered, tossing it aside.

She grabbed another. “Too bold.”

Another. “Too dull.”

Yet another. “Ugh, this is way too casual.”

Frustration bubbled inside her. She groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Oh God, just wear anything, Iris.”

Muttering to herself, she finally snatched a dress from the bed without another thought.

She was about to head for a shower but hesitated, turning back to the mirror for one last glance. “I hope this isn’t too much.”

The irony? It was just a simple house dress. Nothing extravagant. Nothing bold. Just… normal.

She sighed. “I’m overthinking again, aren’t I?”

With a shake of her head, she finally walked away, still second-guessing herself in the back of her mind.

........

Alaric carefully adjusted the last painting, stepping back to admire his work. His studio was dimly lit, the soft glow of warm lights casting shadows over his canvases. "This is perfect," he murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

His fingers traced the edges of one particular painting—the one he was most eager for her to see. "I just can't wait for her to see them," he whispered, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

His heart jumped. His eyes flicked toward the door, excitement coursing through him. "She’s here," he breathed, hurrying to answer.

As soon as he pulled the door open, Iris stood there, her familiar smirk in place.

"Hi again," she greeted, tilting her head slightly.

"Hi, come in," he said, stepping aside.

She entered, her eyes subtly scanning the space as she took in the surroundings.

"Coffee?" he offered, watching her with amusement.

"With your art," she countered, her lips curling into a small smile.

His smirk mirrored hers. "Sure."

He gestured toward a door at the far end of the room. "While I bring it, you can go to that room. My paintings are there."

Iris’s eyes lit up with curiosity. "Sure."

She moved toward the studio, her steps light, deliberate. Alaric, meanwhile, turned toward the kitchen—but his gaze never fully left her.

Take in the details, Iris. His fingers tightened around the counter. I’d love it if you could figure out their meanings on your own.

A slow smirk formed on his lips.

This was going to be interesting.

........

When Alaric returned with the coffee, he found Iris standing directly in front of the painting he had been most eager for her to see. Her gaze was locked onto it, her brows slightly furrowed as if trying to decipher its meaning.

He stepped inside, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Here’s your coffee."

She turned, taking the cup from his hands. "Thank you."

His eyes flickered back to the painting. "So, how do you like them?"

She exhaled, shaking her head in quiet amazement. "Just like I said—cameras can’t capture real beauty. Seeing them in person is… something else."

His smirk deepened. "What about the pain? The desperation they hold?"

She took a small sip of coffee, her gaze drifting back to the artwork. "You're right. It’s all there… haunting and raw."

A flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes. "Do you want to know the meaning behind this one?"

She nodded, stepping closer to the painting. "Yes. Tell me."

Alaric’s gaze darkened slightly as he folded his arms. "This… is a bride in a freezer."

Iris snapped her head toward him, her brows knitting together. "What?"

His lips barely moved as he asked, "Should I tell you the story behind it? The incident that inspired this?"

Iris hesitated for a beat before nodding. "Why not?"

Alaric’s voice dropped slightly, taking on a storytelling rhythm. "There was once a girl and a boy—childhood friends. They grew up together, always side by side. And when they became adults, they started dating. But he didn't like her that much"

Iris tilted her head. "Oh? Then why was she his girlfriend if he didn’t like her ?"

Alaric’s jaw ticked slightly at the interruption, but he kept his composure. "Because she wasn’t ready to leave him. She kept pushing herself into his life, refusing to let go."

Iris hummed in understanding. "Okay."

He continued, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Then, about three years ago, the boy met someone else. He fell in love."

Iris’s expression shifted. "How can he fall in love with someone else when he already had a girlfriend?"

Alaric’s eyes snapped to hers, a quiet warning in them. "Don’t interrupt me."

A small chill ran down her spine at his tone. She swallowed and gave a silent nod.

His lips curled into a faint smile before he went on. "So, he fell in love. And because he wanted to be loyal to this new girl, he asked his girlfriend to leave him."

Iris opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, Alaric reached out and pressed a finger against her lips, silencing her instantly.

His touch was firm yet oddly gentle. His dark eyes bore into hers, filled with something unreadable. "Let me finish," he whispered.

She nodded again, this time slower.

His finger lingered for a second longer before he continued. "The girl refused to leave. She disrespected the new girl. The boy couldn't take it anymore. He asked her again—pleaded with her—to let go. But she didn't. They ended up fighting, and in the struggle, she fell… hit her head on the ground."

Iris’s breath hitched slightly. "And then?" she whispered.

Alaric leaned against the wall, his gaze dark and distant. "He thought… maybe it was better this way. She wouldn’t be an obstacle anymore. He was about to leave her there… but just as he turned to go, she grabbed his hand and begged him not to leave her."

A shiver ran down Iris’s spine.

"She was his childhood friend, after all. He did care for her," Alaric continued. "So he told her, ‘Fine. I won’t leave you. You’ll stay with me forever.’"

Iris’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup. "And?"

Alaric’s lips curled slightly. "So, he put her in the freezer. And from that moment on… she’s been with him. Just like he promised."

A thick silence stretched between them.

Slowly, Alaric removed his finger from her lips.

Iris exhaled, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling creeping up her spine. "Gosh… And what about the bridal dress she’s wearing?"

Alaric’s expression remained unreadable. "Oh, that? When she was alive, she once bought a wedding dress. She told him she wanted to stay with him forever, that she was eager to wear it one day." He tilted his head slightly. "I didn’t want her spirit to linger with unfulfilled wishes. So, before putting her in the freezer… I made sure she wore it."

Iris stared at him, a strange feeling settling in her stomach. "You did that?"

For a split second, something flickered in Alaric’s eyes—panic, hesitation—but it was gone as quickly as it came. He recovered smoothly, flashing a charming smile. "Yeah, I did. Not because the boy told me to. Just… to add a deeper touch to the story and painting."

Iris let out a breath, shaking her head. "Gosh… This story is really something. And your creativity? Mind-blowing."

Alaric smirked. "Thank you."

A beat of silence passed before she asked, "Would you mind teaching me? How to paint like this? With this depth and creativity?"

Alaric's smirk widened. "Why not, Iris? I’d be more than happy to teach you. I’ll teach you everything—normal painting, deep painting, and even how to find inspiration for them."

She beamed. "You’re amazing."

Alaric just smiled back, watching her—watching how easily she trusted, how naive she was to what truly lay beneath his words.

If only she knew what was coming.