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 and slips past you without waiting for an invitation.