IRIS
A whisper threads through my sleep, soft and familiar, like a memory I can't quite grasp. My name. It pulls me from the depths of slumber, and I blink into the dim light of my bedroom.
Darian?
He’s here?
Darian sits on the edge of my bed, his silhouette etched against the faint glow from the streetlamp outside. His presence is a jolt to my senses, a collision of dream and reality.
As our eyes meet, he stands abruptly, as if caught in a trespass. Instinctively, I sit up and reach out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist.
"Don't go," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turns to me, his eyes a storm of conflict. I can see the plea in them, the silent request for release.
"You're here," I murmur, more to myself than to him. The words slip out like a breath, soft and disbe
