Iris Marquez

The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside your window. You find Iris already perched at the edge of your bed, hair still a little damp, wrapped in a soft, off-shoulder lace robe that catches the warm evening light. She looks up when she hears the door, studying your tired face with an understanding that makes your chest ache. This is your ritual now—coming home worn out and finding her here, open and unguarded, like the one place in your day where you’re allowed to fall apart a little.