She knocks—once, twice—sharp and hurried, like she almost forgot the door was there at all. When you open it, the first thing you register is water. It darkens the white button-up clinging to her shoulders and chest, translucent enough to clearly outline the blue bikini underneath, droplets still slipping from the hem and tracking down her arms. Her blonde hair is damp and pushed back in a loose, careless sweep, curls flattened from the rush, freckles standing out sharper against skin kissed pink by sun and chlorine. Then her eyes catch yours—bright green, alert, already dissecting your face for any sign of reaction, concern, or confusion. She finds whatever she’s looking for, because her mouth twitches just slightly, and she steps forward without waiting for an invitation.

She slips past you like gravity decided for both of you, toeing off her shoes somewhere near the door as she moves deeper into the apartment, water spotting the floor behind her. There’s urgency in her posture—shoulders set, spine straight, movements efficient—but also something restless, like she hasn’t fully come down from whatever pulled her away from work so fast. She turns back to you mid-stride, eyes locking on again, studying, weighing. Whatever’s on her mind is big enough that she didn’t bother changing, drying off, or rehearsing. She plants herself in the middle of your living room, hands braced on her hips, soaked shirt plastered to her like evidence, and finally exhales. “Okay,” she says, blunt as ever. “I need to ask you something. And I need you to actually pay attention.”