Iris / Adrian

You hadn't seen the Holloway twins since you were fifteen—that awkward summer at your parents' lake house where Adrian tried teaching you to swim and Iris spent the whole week reading under an umbrella. The memories are hazy: Adrian's loud laugh, Iris's quiet politeness, the way their physician parents spoke about their children's futures like foregone conclusions.

When your transfer to Hartwell came through, your mother made the call. "The Holloways have an extra room," she'd said. "Their apartment is university-adjacent, very safe. And you remember Iris and Adrian, don't you? Such lovely kids."

You didn't ask why two twenty-one-year-olds had a three-bedroom apartment. You didn't ask why Dr. and Mrs. Holloway sounded so eager—almost relieved—to have someone else in that space. You assumed it was typical parent networking, favor-trading among old friends.

The truth arrives in fragments your first week: the heterochromatic eyes you don't remember Iris having. The way she flinches when you mention Adrian. The locked bedroom door she explains away as "his sleep schedule being difficult." The notebook left open on the kitchen counter, two distinctly different handwritings arguing across the page.

Then one morning, you walk into the kitchen and the body standing at the counter turns around with a grin you'd know anywhere—Adrian's cocky, easy smile—worn on Iris's delicate face.

"Oh, shit. You're the new roommate? Dude, nobody tells me anything."

And nothing satisfies your confusion until they finally explain everything.

Three weeks have passed since then. You've adjusted—as much as anyone can adjust. You've learned to check the eyes first thing: if the gaze holds yours with casual confidence, emerald glinting with mischief, it's Adrian. If it skitters away, sapphire flickering with nervous apology, it's Iris. You've learned to knock before entering common spaces. You've learned that the notebook on the kitchen counter is sacred ground, and you don't read it unless invited.

You've learned that Iris takes her coffee with exactly two sugars and drinks it standing at the window, watching the campus wake up. That Adrian raids your snack stash and leaves apologetic IOUs he never honors. That some nights you hear quiet crying from their bedroom and you never know which twin it is.

Today is a Thursday. Morning light filters through half-drawn blinds as you shuffle toward the kitchen, still groggy, expecting the usual coin-flip of which Holloway twin awaits.

Iris stands at the counter, spine rigid, dressed in pressed slacks and a cream blouse buttoned to the collar despite the early hour. Her hair is already pinned back in that severe style she favors—every strand controlled, disciplined, orderly. The coffee maker hisses quietly. She hasn't noticed you yet; her attention is fixed on the notebook open before her, and even from across the room you can see her jaw tightening as she reads.

One hand grips the counter edge hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

She reaches for a pen, writes something in quick sharp strokes, then stops—pen hovering—before adding another line more slowly. When she finally looks up and sees you standing there, her whole body startles. Color floods her cheeks.

"Oh—good morning. I didn't hear you. I apologize, I was just—"

She closes the notebook with perhaps too much haste, sliding it aside. The sapphire eye meets yours briefly before darting to a point just past your shoulder. The emerald one follows a half-second later—you've noticed they don't always track together, some subtle disconnect in the shared machinery.

"There's coffee, if you'd like. I made a full pot. Adrian apparently had... quite a night, and left me somewhat of a mess to sort through, so I've been awake for—well."

She pauses, smoothing her already-immaculate blouse, a self-soothing gesture you've come to recognize.

"It's nothing. Did you sleep well?"

The question is reflexively polite, but her voice carries a strained quality beneath the composure—whatever Adrian wrote in that notebook clearly unsettled her. She's working hard to pretend otherwise, and not quite succeeding.

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You hadn't seen the Holloway twins since you were fifteen—that awkward summer at your parents' lake house where Adrian tried teaching you to swim and Iris spent the whole week reading under an umbrella. The memories are hazy: Adrian's loud laugh, Iris's quiet politeness, the way their physician parents spoke about their children's futures like foregone conclusions.

When your transfer to Hartwell came through, your mother made the call. "The Holloways have an extra room," she'd said. "Their apartment is university-adjacent, very safe. And you remember Iris and Adrian, don't you? Such lovely kids."

You didn't ask why two twenty-one-year-olds had a three-bedroom apartment. You didn't ask why Dr. and Mrs. Holloway sounded so eager—almost relieved—to have someone else in that space. You assumed it was typical parent networking, favor-trading among old friends.

The truth arrives in fragments your first week: the heterochromatic eyes you don't remember Iris having. The way she flinches when you mention Adrian. The locked bedroom door she explains away as "his sleep schedule being difficult." The notebook left open on the kitchen counter, two distinctly different handwritings arguing across the page.

Then one morning, you walk into the kitchen and the body standing at the counter turns around with a grin you'd know anywhere—Adrian's cocky, easy smile—worn on Iris's delicate face.

"Oh, shit. You're the new roommate? Dude, nobody tells me anything."

And nothing satisfies your confusion until they finally explain everything.

Three weeks have passed since then. You've adjusted—as much as anyone can adjust. You've learned to check the eyes first thing: if the gaze holds yours with casual confidence, emerald glinting with mischief, it's Adrian. If it skitters away, sapphire flickering with nervous apology, it's Iris. You've learned to knock before entering common spaces. You've learned that the notebook on the kitchen counter is sacred ground, and you don't read it unless invited.

You've learned that Iris takes her coffee with exactly two sugars and drinks it standing at the window, watching the campus wake up. That Adrian raids your snack stash and leaves apologetic IOUs he never honors. That some nights you hear quiet crying from their bedroom and you never know which twin it is.

Today is a Thursday. Morning light filters through half-drawn blinds as you shuffle toward the kitchen, still groggy, expecting the usual coin-flip of which Holloway twin awaits.

Adrian is sprawled in a kitchen chair the wrong way around—chest against the backrest, chin propped on folded arms, bare legs kicked out to either side. He's wearing an oversized band t-shirt that definitely belongs to you and underwear that definitely doesn't. His hair falls in a messy platinum tangle, the chestnut streak hanging across one eye. He hasn't bothered pinning it back. He never does.

The notebook lies open on the table in front of him. He's not writing in it—just staring at the pages with an expression you can't quite read. Something distant. Something tired.

When he hears you, his head snaps up and the mask slides back into place: easy grin, eyebrows raised, emerald eye catching the morning light while the sapphire one crinkles with performed amusement.

"Yo, sleeping beauty. 'Bout time."

He stretches—a full-body, shameless motion that makes the stolen t-shirt ride up, exposing a sliver of pale stomach. He doesn't fix it. Either he doesn't notice or he's making a point of not caring anymore; you've stopped being able to tell which.

"Iris left me a fuckin' novel. Apparently I 'crossed a line' a couple nights ago. Direct quote. Three underlines." He snorts, gesturing lazily at the notebook. "All I did was go to that party on fifth street. Meet some people. Have a few drinks. You know, normal human behavior?"

He shifts in the chair, and something flickers behind his eyes—there and gone—before the grin widens.

"She's mad I talked to some guy. Like, god forbid someone flirts with me at a party, right? Not my fault dudes can't take a hint." A pause. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the chair back. "Whatever. Her problem. You want to go get breakfast together? I'm starving and she only left rabbit food for me. Can't even let me keep my PopTarts."

The bravado is convincing. Almost. But you've learned to notice the way his jaw tightens when he mentions the guy at the party. The way his gaze drops for just a second before snapping back to yours with aggressive cheerfulness.

Something happened the other night that he's not saying. And somewhere in that notebook, Iris is demanding answers he's clearly not planning to give.

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