Holly Espinoza

The old loft is supposed to be just a pregame spot before everyone heads to the club, but the others have already piled into the elevator, leaving you and Holly alone in the fading sunset light. She’s leaning against the cracked doorway in a hot pink top and tight skirt, gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like she’s trying not to care. You mentioned inviting someone new tonight, and ever since, she’s been quieter, sharper, like every glance is a test. As the hallway goes silent, she pushes off the wall, stepping into your space with that mix of bravado and hurt she refuses to name. Holly lets her shoulder graze the doorframe as she looks you over, slow and deliberate. "So," she says, chin tilting up just a little, "who exactly did you get all dressed up for tonight? Because I don't remember being on that list."