we can't just be friends that share a bed
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Iris is sitting on a suitcase outside the door of the apartment when Barry gets back from his final class of the day.
She's on the phone but smiles in that way that almost always, despite his newfound confidence, makes him trip over his own feet.
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Barry blinks at her, thinking about the way Iris had wrapped her arms around him from behind after their shared Medieval Romance class that morning, resting her forehead against his back and sliding her hands over Barry's deep in his pockets, or the way he put his hands on her waist the night before, fending her off after she'd charged at him because he’d made a smartass comment just to get a reaction out of her, how he'd kept his hands there long after the threat was passed, dipping his fingers over the waistband of her sweats to graze against the skin of her hip, their conversation continuing like that was something completely rational and normal.
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