Barry steps out of the shower stall with a sigh of content, positively refreshed after his wash despite the cool temperature of the water, considering he'd showered after Iris. After a spontaneous, sweet round of morning sex, Iris called dibs on the shower first, and while a slight reason he'd conceded was so he could enjoy the view as she made her way from the bed to the bathroom, his real motive in doing so was to let his wife get her bath in while the water was still warm.
Of course, he could have joined her and savored a hot shower of an entirely different kind, but Iris had called out, "Don't you even think about making me more late to work, Hornball."
Evidently, non-metas had the power to read minds now too.
Smirking at the pleasant memory of their sex, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads back to the bedroom, excited to kiss Iris goodbye and whisper dirty promises for the evening into her ear before sending her off to CCPN.
He halts when he finds her propped up against the pillows, still swaddled in her bathrobe, arms crossed over her chest.
"Er—Iris?" he probes. "What happened to not wanting to be late?"
"I'm mad at you," she states simply, glaring at him.
"Umm," he quizzes, raising his eyebrows, baffled. "I'm…sorry I delayed your morning because I couldn't keep it in the pants, but if you don't get dressed now, you actually will be late—"
"Why didn't you tell me you had feelings for me earlier?"
"Excuse me?!" he sputters.
As though out of a comedy, his towel slips off his hips with his shock, briefly exposing him. He hurriedly pulls it back over himself, flustered, suddenly overcome with vulnerability standing opposite his wife, despite having just been in bed with her.
"Why didn't you tell me you had feelings for me earlier?" she repeats, unfazed by his towel blunder.
"I—I—" Barry stammers, struggling to cipher how best to handle this impromptu interrogation. He never anticipated she would accost him with such a question, and so randomly at that. As far as he's concerned, he can pinpoint several occasions where he believes he sufficiently explained why he took so long to confess his love for her. If Iris felt those justifications weren't enough, if she had any unresolved anger with him, he figures she'd have inquired more extensively before agreeing to be with him, certainly not on the verge of their first wedding anniversary.
"Iris…" he treads cautiously, "I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear to you before, but—it was really hard to tell you how I felt because—we grew up together. I thought for sure I would lose you if you didn't feel the same way—"
"Goddammit, Barry, you were so CUTE!" Iris bursts, throwing her hands up in exasperation.
"Huh?" Barry questions, now more confused than ever, and even taking a moment to quickly scan the room for alcohol as a potential explanation for her puzzling conduct, regardless of how little sense that makes—
"You were the cutest dork in high school," Iris continues. "You made me miss out on you then, and I'll never forgive you for that."
"What?!" Barry perplexes, though relief floods over him. "That's what this is about?! You're mad because you can't—have a teenage version of me?"
Even uttering it aloud sounds preposterous.
"I'm more than mad, I'm livid," Iris insists. "Do you have any idea how adorable you were? How endearingly awkward? How irresistible?"
"I mean, aren't I still awkward and adorable?" he poses. "And if you thought I was so irresistible why didn't YOU tell me so, eh?"
"It's not the same!" Iris quips.
He brings the hand that isn't holding his towel in place to the back of his neck, rubbing it absentmindedly.
"What do you want me to say? Sorry?" he offers, unable to suppress the upward turn of his lips or the amusement in his tone.
"Well for starters, you can stop smirking," Iris scolds. "This is serious."
His attempt to maintain a straight expression however, is disastrous, and he bursts into laughter.
"It's not funny!" Iris fumes, seizing the nearest pillow and chucking it at him. "I can't believe you deprived me of your thick-rimmed glasses, of the way you babbled and your voice cracked, how you would trip and fall flat on your face, even if there was nothing to trip on—God, you were such a hopeless KLUTZ. If I had known how you felt, I would have eaten you up."
"Iris," he chuckles, shaking his head, vastly entertained by her profound shower thoughts, but aware of the clock ticking. "If you're not going to get dressed and go to work, I am."
He turns to strut to his closet only to step on his towel, slip, and lose balance, plummeting to the floor facedown, the entirety of his body now uncovered and on display for Iris.
Barry hears muffled giggles that grow louder, and he makes out that she's hopped off the bed to stand over where he's laying, nudging him with her ankle until he turns on his back. Once his eyes meet hers, her hands move to untie her robe until it glides off her shoulders, dropping at his feet.
"We just showered," Barry warns, reading the intention in her gaze.
"So we'll shower again," Iris shrugs, sliding on top of him.
"There's no hot water left," he croaks, cock twitching at the feel of her skin.
She bends forward until the tips of her breasts brush against his chest and her hair curtains over his face: "We'll make our own heat."
"We're late," he tries one last time, even though he's already succumbed, powerless after catching a whiff of her shampooed locks, her scent always his weakness.
Iris grins mischievously.
"What's late is how long you took to tell me." She rises on her knees to sink onto him. "Lucky for me and you, you haven't changed one bit."