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Barry comes away from that first meeting with three thoughts: She scares him, a little. She’s exactly as smart as she lets on. And her fingers are like silk.
Iris leaves with one. How good it felt when she sensed his pulse quicken at her touch. The thoughts linger.
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The story doesn’t actually start here, but right here is what matters in their memories. What doesn’t matter is the train of thought he was on. That is derailed the second she lightly, but purposefully, guides him by his chin. Iris stares at him, searching, appraising; and he feels like praying for her approval of whatever she finds. It’s a long moment, where he doesn’t hear or notice anything in their general vicinity, can’t sense anything but the warmth radiating from her skin to his.
(He might tell Iris this later on, and she might say “I’ll bet you were warm. You were blushing like a rose.” He’ll probably do it again, provoked by the memory; he’ll laugh sheepishly, choke when she says “I love it when you blush. You put your entire body into it” while her hand trails the exposed skin of his abdomen.)
His mouth is open, and it occurs to him that maybe it would be a good idea for words to come out of it. Faintly, he considers the distance from her finger to his mouth, and wonders whether it would be a better idea for something else to go in his mouth. But then she nods, pulls her hand away from his face, and places it between them for a handshake. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Allen.” He needs to say something, anything.
“Call me Barry. Please.” He hopes it doesn’t sound like begging, not when all he wants to do is impress her. She rewards him with a smile as she repeats his name. It’s too sharp to be benevolent, and too sweet to be wicked. It emboldens him, just enough to let his hand linger when the handshake should end. His hands are bigger than hers and his fingers graze her wrist. He’s felt like a live wire during the whole interaction; and he would swear on his own life that he feels an actual spark.
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Iris doesn’t actually think about it much before she reaches out for his face. He looked like he needed guidance, and she just…gives him some.
He—Allen—he introduced himself as Something Allen, doesn’t jump away from her touch, even though he’s clearly startled. He stammers, until his voice trails off (she wasn’t particularly interested in the topic of conversation, anyway) and his gaze is locked onto her face. Her finger is right below his chin, and she can feel his pulse speed up, feel his energy pick up. It’s more than a little satisfying.
She’s not quite sure what to make of him, not yet. She hadn’t thought much of his face when she first laid eyes on it, but now? When he’s looking a little wrecked, a little nervous, eyes asking for something she wants to give? Well. It’s a good look. Unconsciously, she turns his face to get a better look, and he takes in a breath as his pulse gives a quick jump.
(If everything goes right, later, much later, she’ll mention this moment fondly, and he’ll get embarrassed about how easy it was to tell. She’ll see it as an opportunity to remind him that the pulse slows down with less oxygen. She’ll remind him about how good he is with experiments.)
There’s a lot that she could do with (to) him. Finally, she remembers where they are, releases his face back to him. She tries to back over the line they crossed, tries to give him a professional handshake, keeps the words formal. And then.
“Call me Barry. Please.” His voice wavers, just a little, and she remembers his expression from a moment ago, and suspicion becomes realization, and she’s more than a little happy about it. She can give him that. She wants to give him that. She smiles. “Of course. Barry.” They shake on it. He has nice hands, larger than hers. The handshake goes on longer than necessary, and she can honestly say that she's not the one who prolongs it, even though she’s not against it. One of his fingers drifts across her wrist, and she realizes the moment affected her more than she thought when she imagines a live spark.
There are thousand ways it could go from here, and neither of them have a single clue which way it will.