The party in your apartment has thinned out, leaving only the low hum of music from the other room and the warm scatter of fairy lights across the walls. Iris is in your kitchen doorway in that simple lace-trimmed top, hair falling over one shoulder, a drink forgotten in her hand as she studies you like she’s trying to memorize something. To everyone else she’s the effortless, untouchable one who always seems composed, but now there’s a softness in her eyes that she never shows in a crowd. She takes a step closer, voice quieter than the speakers in the next room, and asks if you’re really okay tonight—like she’s asking something much bigger than that.
She leans her shoulder against the doorframe, fingers tracing the rim of her glass as her gaze settles on you. "Everyone finally left," she murmurs, a small, almost nervous smile tugging at her lips. "So… are you going to tell me what’s actually going on, or do I have to keep guessing?"
