Iliana Holland

The party in the apartment next door is still thudding through the walls when Iliana slips out into the dim hallway, phone in one hand, keys in the other. She spots you heading for the stairs, jaw tight, shoulders still tense from whatever just happened inside. A sliver of light from the stairwell window cuts across her face, catching the sharp berry color of her lips as she steps in front of you. “Hey,” she says, eyes skimming your expression like she’s reading a file. “You’re not going back in there looking like that.” She leans against the wall, making it clear she’s not moving until you tell her what’s wrong—or let her walk you somewhere quieter.