Weeks had passed since the spring reopening of the Central City Art Museum, but communal awe of The Painting at the forefront of the museum's main exhibition hadn't subdued. That was all one needed to refer to these days in any conversation medium, from casual discussion to news commentary, before anyone could recognize, even without naming its official title, the piece it was alluding to: a hyperrealistic oil painting of a woman's face.

Why such a basic premise had rattled the art community and the general public is a warranted question. After all, portraits of women had been around forever surely, so what made this one so unique as to have art historians and academics known to scoff at modern works of art scramble to label it a "new classic" or a "contemporary masterpiece."

"It's really about the subject of the painting, more than the technique behind it," a famous art critic commented on a radio show one morning. "Everyone agrees that this woman is stunning, and that's really what's so impressive about what Barry Allen has painted here: a beautiful face that's universal in its appeal and almost ethereal in a way. Allen has captured, heck I'd even go as far as to say has created beauty-"

"This isn't based on a woman he knows?" the host asks.

"Well, the man is a newcomer and refuses to speak of his work, which I respect from an artist, especially from these millennials who love to overshare. Sometimes you just need to let the work be consumed, but anyways-no such woman exists," the critic chuckles. "And if she does, please point me in her direction."

"Me too," another guest snickers.

"So you're of the belief that Mr. Allen conceived this image entirely of his own imagination?" the host continues. "Because I'm sure you've heard of the speculation surrounding this painting, much of which is debate over whether or not this woman is real."

"Oh yeah, unless you've been living under a rock, who isn't aware of the debate?" the critic responds. "I think it's a disservice to Allen to say she's real. Because then, the credit for such a work of art doesn't really belong to him, it belongs to her."

"I guess, more accurately, the question is whether Allen is talented, or if he's a talented genius."

"That's a good way of framing it," the critic agrees. "Well, I'm Team Talented Genius, because come on, there's no way a woman who looks like that is roaming freely without attention…"

The rain escalates from a light drizzle to a full-blown cascade by the time Iris pulls up to her destined street. Were she not familiar with this neighborhood, she would have struggled to pinpoint the number of the apartment complex she was looking for in such a storm, but even if she wants to forget, her memory won't allow her to, not with the way she's accustomed to driving down this road, to hitting the slight bump in the pavement that's just before the building she's seeking out, one she's sought out over and over again before.

Sure enough, the thump of her car, the result of her tires slowly easing over said bump tells her she's arrived. She shifts the gear into park, turning her head to face where she knows the building stands, even if she can barely make it out with the rain blurring her view.

The prospective storm alone should have deterred her from seeking him out, especially with the impending flash flood warnings, but since she made the drive through the inclement weather, it would be futile for her to turn back, not to mention, legitimately dangerous now.

Not like what she was about to attempt didn't present its own risks. What was she even doing here? Did she think she could accost Barry in his own home after she left him? And for what? Painting an acclaimed portrait of her that no one seemed to stop talking about?

Had she known months ago that he would use her face as inspiration for a public piece that would eventually flourish, she'd have found the idea so repulsively exploitative that she'd probably have a lawyer on the line this very moment. The difference nearly three-fourths of a year had induced however had her touched by the gesture, reminded of his gifted hands, and most significantly, provoked by how much she misses him. And as though he had foreseen her potential reaction, much of the buzz surrounding the painting was that Barry Allen, an unknown struggling young artist, had donated it to the museum on the condition that no one pocket any profit from it, not even himself. The proof of that was in front of Iris's eyes: the same meager apartment building that she walked out of almost a year ago.

She takes a deep breath and turns off her engine. It was now or never, and in the end, even if she can't quite identify what exactly she wants from this visit, she knows she wants to see him, at least one more time.

Barry curses the lightning when the lamps in his studio power out the approximate instant his paintbrush touches the canvas. He's so taken aback by the sudden darkness that his hand sweeps involuntarily, effectively ruining whatever progress he had made after a gruesome three hours scratching his head at his easel, waiting for some sort of inspiration to strike him. He kicks the painting stand back angrily, huffing in frustration, knowing deep down that the real source of his creative block has been the same one since the night he let her go.

He's accustomed to solitude, sure, but what he feels without Iris is far from the isolation he voluntarily takes on when he needs to paint. There was no remedy for this vacancy, and his inability to produce anything of substance ever since they parted ways is testament to that.

That was, anything of substance unless it was tied to her in some capacity. For months, he tried desperately to paint something else, anything else, but everything he managed to contrive was always influenced by her. No matter how abstract it might look to the casual eye, he could still see her in his final product, could distinguish exactly where and how he had woven her into his piece-a particular color selection, a certain stroke of his brush-in the end everything went back to her.

Then one day, she stopped haunting his paintings. He still can't name what happened exactly, only that when he finally stood back to study his completed project, it was devoid of any trace of her. At last, after months of desperate attempts to steer clear of her, he was free.

Except then he had realized he didn't want to be rid of her. He wanted her so embedded in his conscience that she would bleed into his work. It was the first piece he'd managed to paint without her, and it was also the worst.

He subsequently went into a panic, driven by the fear that he had forgotten her. He tore down his canvas and scrambled for a fresh one, his movements quick and fraught. His hands worked of their own accord, gliding across the canvas cloth, tracing her features: the delicacy of her chin, the plump of her lips, the gleam of her eyes. He had teared up as her crafted her face from memory, relieved that he still remembered her as though he had last looked upon her exquisiteness yesterday.

Presently, Barry sighs, reaching into his pockets for a cigarette to light, the tiny orange glow of its end the only illumination in the room. Iris never stopped trying to get him to quit, pleading with him that she wanted him alive, and he did stop for some time, just because she had been the one to ask. But he needed something to cope when she was gone, and besides, his heart was burning anyway.

She hadn't realized the power in his building must have gone out in the time it took her to make up her mind about leaving her car, and she uses the glare of her phone to help guide her steps forward and up the stairs to where he lives on the third floor. Her mind would never let her forget it.

Neither would her nose it seems, as she picks up the stench of cigarette smoke the closer she approaches his door. Under any other circumstance, she would pinch her nostrils shut, but the odor is so achingly evocative of him that she can't find it in herself to be bothered by it, or even disappointed that he must have picked up the habit again in her absence.

Was the hallway to his apartment always this long from the stairs? She doesn't recall passing this many doors en route to his. Perhaps it's the effect of the pitch blackness, or maybe her legs have slowed down as her body's own cue that this is a mistake. Despite their steady pace however, her feet keep moving until they finally rest in front of the door labelled 309, the numbers visible to her even without the assistance of her phone's glow.

Only then does Iris consider pragmatically and quite abruptly that he may not be home, or that he had moved, possibilities she should have contemplated minutes ago, or perhaps hours ago, but she shakes them from her head, aware that she's making excuses for herself so that she doesn't go through with this. Besides, the only way to rule those out was to do what she came here to do, which was lift her knuckles to the shabby wood of his door, no matter how much they trembled, and firmly knock.

Barry promptly lifts his head after lighting his second cigarette: had he just heard a pounding on his door? Or was the thunder playing tricks on his ears?

He doesn't want to walk from where he's seated comfortably on the couch, smoking his exasperation away, but his nagging inner voice tells him it's probably a neighbor here to borrow batteries for a flashlight or some shit. He'll regret to inform them that he doesn't even own a flashlight, but there's no way for his poor neighbor to know that unless he gets his ass up to tell them so.

He groans and reluctantly treads over to his apartment entrance, tripping over a can of paint as he goes. He swears loudly, realizing that he had just spilled a month's supply of crimson paint with no chance of salvaging any of it. Aggravated, he boots the can away with his ankle before pulling out his lighter to illuminate the floor for any other potential obstacles, wondering if he should in fact be the one asking his neighbor for a flashlight.

Taking care not to step into the expanding puddle of paint or else a larger mess to clean would await him once the power resumed, he dodges several additional jars of paint and his assortment of brushes and sponges on his way to the door, momentarily reprimanding himself for never learning how to organize his workspace, heck reprimanding himself for even bothering to answer to whoever knocked in the first place.

He unbolts the lock and pulls the door open, his apology for his lack of batteries already prepped, when the lights flicker back on briefly. He catches a glimpse of her before she disappears into blackness once more, as though she were a ghost.

For all the water she's soaked in, it's a marvel that Iris's mouth seems to have gone completely dry at the sight of him, as fleeting as it was. She had already anticipated he would have a cigarette in his mouth, considering she had smelled it feet away, and she figured he'd be donning his favorite overalls and be splattered in paint, he always was and she often teased him for it.

What she wasn't prepared for was how much more alluring he had somehow managed to become in their time apart, or maybe he only appeared to be so after nine months, even though he maintained his signature scruff and haircut. Whatever it was, Iris suddenly has trouble diagnosing why she'd ever willingly deprived herself of his handsome face.

She can't see the color of his eyes, the green that seeped into her dreams on more nights than she'd like to admit, a shade that she'd challenged him to paint, but she can still envision it as though she can, sleek green irises like crystal, framed with heavy lashes she used to kiss to stop herself from envying them. She makes out their fluttering in the dark of the night which she registers as his perplexed blinking.

He pulls the cigarette from between his teeth, as though he needs to remove any and all distractions to accept that what he just saw was indeed her.

"Iris?" he utters, barely above a whisper.

Just as she opens her mouth to respond, a roaring clap of thunder sounds, startling both of them, such that Barry drops his cigarette.

"Shit!" he exclaims, staring at the fallen cigarette. He exhales pointedly before muttering, "That was my last one."

"Maybe it's a sign that you shouldn't be smoking," Iris finds herself saying before she even realizes.

His eyes dart back to her swiftly, and Iris regrets opening her mouth, berating herself for having the nerve to disturb him and then judge his lifestyle all at once, until she catches, dare she believe it, a hint of a smile on his lips-

Whatever it was, smile or not, the reality of the situation must then sweep over him, because he crushes the cigarette with his foot as his features abruptly switch to sternness.

"What are you doing here, Iris?" he asks.

She takes note of his neutral tone; as eerie as it is, she finds herself grateful he hasn't already slammed the door shut in her face.

She also wishes he would have just slammed it closed so that she wouldn't have to ponder a response to his inquiry that didn't make her seem as impulsive, desperate, or ridiculous as she looked. Perhaps she should have rehearsed this on the drive over.

Iris figures she should just be honest, after all any lie she conjured would sound just as pathetic as the truth, and her reasoning for being here was because of something he did anyway, so why her apprehension?

So she vows to tell the truth: "I wanted to see you."

Holy fucking shit.

Barry thought he would never be so privileged as to see her another time unless his hands fashioned her from paint, yet here she was in front of him, radiant even in darkness. He thought he remembered her beauty enough to reproduce it on a canvas, but what he had created, no matter how much acclaim it had garnered, never came close to doing her justice.

She was the kind of untouchable art that was beyond replicating or outshining. Even drenched from head to toe, she was breathtaking, her hair curling from the moisture, her eyelashes shimmering with droplets that cling to them, rain he wishes he could kiss away. His fingers still long to paint her, but not before they yearn to run themselves along every single inch of her, just to make sure that she's real.

But she is, she's real. And she's back.

She really came back.

He doesn't allow himself to bask in the thrill of this prospect too much however, lest she end up breaking his heart again. Besides, he would be a naive idiot not to perceive the actual reason she must be here.

She had more than likely finally discovered The Painting.

Barry shakes himself out of his stupor, moving aside.

"Come on in," he ushers simply, attempting to keep his voice steadier than his heart.

Something like consolation flashes across her expression, and Barry is secretly consoled as well. He figures she must have been tense her entire trip here, but as much as he doesn't want her feel afraid, especially because of him, it's a comfort to know she appears just as nervous as he is.

Best of all is that she isn't angry about The Painting, or at least, he prays she isn't.

Iris carefully steps into his apartment, halting suddenly. It takes Barry a moment to realize what the pool of spilt scarlet paint must look like in the dark.

"It's paint," he finds himself explaining sheepishly.

"As if it would be anything else," she teases, smiling at him for the first time that night. He nearly collapses at the sight, having believed that smile would never make an appearance in his life again, let alone flash for his sake.

He tries to pretend he isn't affected by it, a nearly impossible task, but he manages to force a slight cough before pointing out the couch to her.

"It's-kind of hard to find with no light…"

"I remember, Barry," she states, looking at him directly, her gaze knowing, and Barry's cheeks heat, because the only reason she would recall his apartment in the dark is if she recalled past occurrences at his apartment in the dark-

He has to glance away.

Iris catches the way Barry meets her eyes and turns from her. She can't read his mind, but she's certain it wandered to the same territory hers did: nights spent in each other's embrace, limbs entwined, bodies joined, making love as though they couldn't make anything else.

"Do you-want anything to drink?" he offers, conveniently diverting her thoughts. "Power hasn't been out too long. The beer cans in the fridge should still be cold."

"Sure," she nods, sitting down slowly, observing his silhouette as he fetches two beers, awkwardly opening hers up before positioning it in front of her on the coffee table, like he doesn't want to touch her or get too close. She can't exactly blame him for being so strained, she had left him after all only to reappear at his doorstep months later without warning.

She takes a cautious sip from the rim of her can, eyeing him as he settles on the other end of the couch. Both of them take a few moments to swallow their drinks in the pitch black of his living room, the only sound being the faint rumble outside and the splatter of rain against his windowpanes.

Truthfully, Iris was thirsty, but not for any kind of beverage. She couldn't believe how much being in his presence for only minutes had amplified her longing for him tenfold, despite barely being able to visualize him. She's reminded of what had triggered her ache for him in the first place, and that was the reason she was here.

She clears her throat to begin speaking, only to be interrupted by another ear-splitting thunderbolt.

"You shouldn't have driven in this weather," Barry remarks, and she takes his implied concern as a good sign. He's still worried about her, which must mean he still cares for her, which must mean-

But Iris guards herself: "I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't painted me for the world to see."

He sets his can onto the table with a clank and an forceful exhalation. She imagines his nostrils flaring in the dark.

"I figured it was a matter of time," he states casually, still scrutinizing his beer.

Iris's gaze moves from him to his beer and back to him again. She didn't want to come off as accusatory, truly she was more intrigued, even flattered by his portrait than offended, but something about his nonchalance irks her, and she wonders if she should be apprehending him. Was the entire portrait a stunt to attract her attention? To send her a message?

"What are you saying?" Iris questions.

"What are you saying?" he retaliates, finally looking at her, and she's annoyed now.

She crosses her arms. "Don't sass me, Barry-"

"I'll say what I mean if you do," he interjects, and Iris freezes for an instant, stunned by his ability to still decipher her after all this time, and surprisingly eased. She lets herself relax, primarily because she knows he's right: a level of frankness was what they both needed and deserved.

Iris tries again, staring him dead in the eye this time, swearing she can somehow see the green in them now, even as blackness surrounds them.

"Okay," she declares. "Why?"

His suspicions had been confirmed. She was here for answers, and as much as a tiny part of him wishes she came back for something else, Barry's aware that he owes her an explanation.

"I did it on a whim," he describes. "I had trouble coping-when you left…and it kept seeping into my work, over and over again. I wanted to move on, but every time I painted, I was reminded of you. I just-let it all out one day, I guess…"

His voice dwindles with every word, and he wonders how pathetic and borderline creepy he must appear. He's too anxious to even look in her direction.

"I couldn't keep it with me. Seeing you everyday like that-hurt. I didn't wanna sell it, and I could never bring myself to burn it. I didn't know what to do, so when I saw the museum was accepting submissions-"

He runs a hand through his hair, another forced gesture to avoid having to face her.

"I wasn't trying to mock you or win you back or anything, if that's what you came to hear. Please be assured of that."

"Barry," Iris coaxes, and he's astounded by the softness in her tone, having expected anger or even disgust. "I know you wouldn't do that. That's not who you are."

He doesn't say anything, still wondering what had prompted her to come then, if it wasn't to berate him.

She draws in a distinct breath, and Barry squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the rebuke-

"It's nice seeing you getting the recognition you deserve," she alliterates, and Barry opens his eyes again, scarcely able to believe it. "I'm proud of you."

He's elated to hear her say this, touched by her validation and support more than anything, indeed her opinion mattered to him above anyone else's, even the most valued critics.

That is until she inhales again, and Barry waits for the other shoe to drop.

"But you didn't answer my question," she continues. "Why?"

Barry shivers, and it's nothing to do with the busted heat. He promised her he would be honest, he did, and he had to be, even if it meant baring and offering his heart only for her to throw it back at him like she did before.

"I missed you," he confesses, taken aback at how level his voice is, in spite of being unable to tell his bellowing pulse from the thunder outdoors.

Perhaps it's for the best that he can't see her reaction play out across her features, but he does make out her shadow stiffening from where she sits beside him.

"What?" she whispers.

Please don't make me say it again, he wants to beg, but despite his trepidation, he does: "I missed you."

The ensuing silence is so prominent, and with the added darkness, Barry wonders if she's even there, if instead he's lost his mind and hallucinated this entire exchange-

That is until he feels her knee brush his as her profile edges closer to him.

"It was beautiful, Barry," Iris marvels, her voice gentle. "You made me look-incredible."

Barry dares himself to look up into her eyes, at least into as much of them as he can see. They had agreed they would only speak their truths.

"That's just how I always saw you," he murmurs, then feeling braver, lets his gaze settle to where her mouth must be: "It's how I still see you."

He doesn't know why he does what he does next, perhaps he's spurred on by her praise of his work, or her empathetic understanding, or even just the fact that she's here at all when she could have continued living her life without him while he was unable to without her, but he extends a shaking arm out toward her figure, reaching out until he cups her cheek. It's the first skin-to-skin contact they've made since before their break-up, and Barry swears it's more electric than the lightning flashing beyond his window.

When Iris doesn't pull away, he's even more heartened, motivated to thumb the contours of her lips. Her subsequent shuddering is all the encouragement left that he needs, and he covers her mouth with his.

A rush of breath passes between them, in the tiny gap just before the closing of skin. Someone sighs-Iris hasn't the faintest idea which one of them it is, nor does she care to know. All she knows is that she needs to breathe in as much of Barry Allen as she can to make up for the last nine months without him.

She has a new appreciation for the darkness they're bathed in so that she can revel in the feel of him against her and indulge in his taste. She savors the beer and smoke on his tongue, not even minding it anymore now that she gets to taste it off of him, certain that only he could make her find such a flavor enticing.

When his arms snake around her, she feels a wave of helplessness so blissful she wants to drown in it, in a pool of vulnerable fervor for him. She surrenders, ready to sink, until she's floating again, hauled off the couch by Barry. She's too engrossed in his lips to map out where exactly he's taking her, but if her spatial instincts are correct, she's pretty sure of where he's headed. She winds her legs around his hips and kisses him anew at this realization, her tongue tracing the outline of his mouth while he collides with the door frame in his desperation to make it to the bed with no light guiding him.

He drops her onto the mattress, Iris instantly noticing his unmade bed like he always left it. Only then is she alerted to just how much she had indeed missed him, after a rush of affection overcomes her at this familiar habit. She wants more recollections of him, sitting up to push his shirt back and rip his overall straps down his shoulders, remembering how much she used to laugh fondly at how he wore his shirts on top of his overalls instead of under.

Now she regrets the dark, wishing she could see him as his overalls slip to the floor, exposing his chest. She makes use of her memory once more to complete the picture as she smooths her hands over his torso: the crest of his ribs, the splash of moles here, the mesh of dark hair there, the splatter of paint stains all over. The tactility isn't enough for her, and she presses her lips to his navel where his muscles immediately tense and writhe beneath her touch, just above where he's engorged. Even in darkness, Iris detects the twitching bulge in his shorts, and its shape alone sends her pooling between her legs.

As it navigates the salt of his skin, her tongue finds a rough, bitter patch on his sternum that she identifies as paint. She could spend the entire night licking him clean, not caring if the paint was toxic or tart. To her, nothing was more toxic than being away from him, and she brings her palms to his lower back, holding him closer while her mouth works him, as though the more tightly she clings, the more she can forget their time apart.

Barry laces his hand in Iris's curls, gently pushing her away from him. As much as it torments him to stop her ministrations, he's also eager to bare her, desperate to touch her. Had he known a painting of her would guide them back to this, would lead her back to him, to this very moment, ridding her of her clothes, and charting her body, he would have painted a portrait of her for every day she was gone.

He should have remembered to take her coat at the door like a good host would have; instead he wrestles it off of her himself like an ever better host. When he shoves her top up to her neck, a flicker of lightning gifts him a glimpse of her breasts, long enough to evoke his nostalgia, but short enough that he can justify cupping them in his palms. Her nipples rise as he thumbs them softly, their tips visible in the adjacent shadow of her figure.

He's glad she works her shirt over her head herself so that he doesn't have to withdraw his hands from her smooth skin. Still kneading her, his eyes rake over her, taking her in like this, stretched across his bed, stripped to the waist, hoping he can commit this image of her to memory, not even to duplicate-he knows that he could never recreate this-but just to keep, to dream about, in case she walked out that door again.

Then he remembers that he doesn't need to dream, not with the reality of her laid out before him.

The site where her pulse beats in her neck had always been a weak point, and he exploits it mercilessly, sucking so harshly that he knows the bruise will subside for days, her own souvenir of the night.

"Bear," she breathes, and his nickname from her lips is so reminiscent that he rewards her with a tender kiss to the now raised, surely reddened area, soothing his tongue over it as lightly as he can.

He reaches for the zipper on her jeans, hauling them down to her calves once undone. She kicks them off as he peels the last of her clothes away.

Her cunt glistens, the only shred of luster in the dark room. Mesmerized, he watches it shift upward and back down again as she lifts her pelvis to spread her legs, the sheen of her folds begging to be fondled. He fumbles for what he's searching for on his nightstand, too enthralled by her glossed flesh to look away.

As delicately as he would swipe paint over a canvas, Barry strokes her with the thin bristles of the brush. Iris pulls her knees up to anchor her feet to the mattress, driving herself forward to meet his movements, her breath hitching as she shifts. She circles her hips as Barry traces her from lips to clit and back around, her scent growing stronger, until he can't resist sinking his face between her thighs. She smells as though the storm outside had wrapped itself around her. The paintbrush slips from his fingers as he forces his own shorts down his knees and grips himself.

Iris arcs her back as she bursts against his tongue, her flesh still spasming even though her legs go slack. She nudges Barry with her ankle, before getting back up onto her knees. When he stands, she makes out his hand on his cock, rubbing himself with subdued groans.

She feels another rush to her cunt at the prospect of his impatience, but the rush to have him inside her is stronger. Iris reaches under his legs, between his thighs to clasp his cheek and pull him toward her, hoping to wordlessly convey her message across.

She supposes one advantage of loving a painter is that he's never been a man of words anyway. Still clutching his length, he climbs atop the bed, her legs splaying up to accommodate him as he settles himself between them.

Iris tugs him down for a tame kiss, relaxing at the mild cushion of his lips. He breaks the contact to exhale, burying his head in her crook of her throat as he slides inside her.

Her gasps expel as hot puffs against Barry's ear, amplifying into moans with each of his thrusts.

"Come on, " he finds himself muttering spiritedly, biting down on the inside of his cheek, an attempt at restraint for her sake. "Come on…"

Iris's fingernails rake down his back, hopelessly forcing herself forward. He slides a hand between their damp bodies to rub a finger down her clit. Her hips thrust harder into his hand, both their mouths falling open at the same time with their effort, their cries mingling.

The thunder was loud, but together, they were louder.

He finally feels her tremble, her legs so tightly bound around his hips that he half believes they're a part of him. Barry relishes the way she clenches around him before he too gives out, resting his cheek against her collar as he spills into her.

Sunlight creeps through her vision as Iris opens her eyes, momentarily dazed when she observes her surroundings. She thinks perhaps she's in a dream, until she remembers she's in Barry's bed, recalls the events of last night.

It still very well resembles a scene from a dream when she rises from the pillows to find him standing before his easel, passing his brush over the canvas cloth.

Now in the morning glow, she's granted the first clear picture of him since she left him. The hair at the base of his neck is tousled, no doubt a consequence of her own hands. The sun lends a golden hue to his naked, freckled back, casts a shadow on his ass and all the way down to his ankles. The slender muscles of his arms flex as he works quietly with meticulous concentration. She always loved the way his hands moved while he painted, loved watching them create for hours on end, never quite grasping how they conjured something from nothing, working their own miracles, but now, she wants him to turn around, wants to finally see his face-

"I hope that's not the brush we used."

His head jerks in her direction, and Iris has to catch her breath. Everything she had conceived about his image in the dark last night was nothing compared to him on his feet before her now in broad daylight. His moles were decorated with paint just as she had visualized, and his facial hair was groomed exactly how she remembered it, but she had underestimated the purse of his brows, the sparkle of his eyes, and most importantly, the transcendence of his smile.

And if he won't take her back, she thinks her return even just to see that smile one more time would have been worth it.

He hadn't wanted to sleep out of fear that this was a fantasy. If he didn't sleep, there would be nothing to wake from, and he could keep her forever.

When he wakes and she's still in his arms, when he finally catches sight of her in bright light, he has to stifle a cry so as not to rouse her.

He's certain a mere photograph of her sleeping deserved a museum of its own.

Now she sits up in his bed, the blankets pulled over her legs, uncovered from the waist up, her black hair coiled tightly after drying, her breasts hanging elegantly, her skin glowing as the sun's rays touched her.

He beams because to react in any other way is inconceivable.

"No, that would be be pretty unsanitary," he chuckles.

When the corners of her impeccable lips turn upward, Barry has to sit down to ground himself.

"I see you're painting again," she points out.

He nods. "I was missing something before. But-she came back last night."

Iris tilts her head, a sly grin spreading across her cheeks.

"Can she stay?"

His heart soars: "As long as she wants."

Her smile is somehow even more brilliant, but then her brows furrow.

"Iridos," she starts timidly, and instantly, Barry knows she's talking about The Painting, inquiring about his choice of title. "I'm guessing that's a play on my name?"

"It is," Barry admits, hanging his head bashfully. "Latin."

"Touché," she teases, and he smiles in spite of himself, until he notices she falters.

"Iris," he queries, his heart sinking. "What's wrong?"

She glances up at him, a wistful tint to her eyes. "What if you find out she's not what you were missing?"

Barry deflates slightly at her distress, but he's determined to uplift her. He strides over to the bed, crouching down to her level.

"Iridos," he repeats.

Iris blinks her tears away, confused now.

"It means rainbow," he describes empathically.

"Okay..." she nods uncertainly, and Barry figures he's going to have to explain.

"Rainbows, the color of the eye..." he continues, hoping she sees the trend, but she still looks hesitant.

"She's exactly what I was missing," he promises, "because she adds color to everything." He takes her hands, his smile stretching his lips when understanding floods her features: "What kind of painter would I be without her?"