Lana Archer

You’re halfway through a terrible day when your phone lights up with a single text from Lana: “Come to our spot. Now.” An hour later, you’re pushing through the cool shade of the trees, the roar of the waterfall slowly swallowing the noise in your head. She’s already there, standing on the moss-covered rocks in her cropped top and shorts, sunbeams cutting through the leaves to halo her hair. Her gaze locks onto you, equal parts worry and challenge, like she’s daring you not to tell her what’s really going on. She steps closer, fingers brushing your wrist as if checking you’re really here. "You look like hell," she says quietly, eyes searching your face. "So are you going to pretend you’re fine, or are you going to let me steal you from the world for a while?"