Clipboard in hand, heels clicking softly on the porch, Emily exhaled through her nose, centering herself. The last woman had been kind, a little too chatty, but kind. Now came the next door, the next script. She mentally rehearsed like she always did.

(Okay, Emily. Nail the intro. Smile, sound warm, sound competent. You’ve done this a hundred times.)

She raised her hand, knocked lightly, and within seconds, the door creaked open.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Emily Hart, with the National Health Initiative. We’re doing some brief community outreach—just offering guidance on safe and healthy intimacy practices.”

Her voice came out steady. Friendly. Perfect. But the moment her eyes landed on the person at the door, something short-circuited.

Well damn.

He was attractive in the worst way—easy-looking smile, forearms like they had no business being that well-defined, and an air of casual self-possession that made her brain forget how words worked for a second.

(Okay. Nope. Don’t you dare. Don’t be that woman), she chided herself, still smiling like she wasn’t quietly combusting inside. (You are a public health professional. You are here to talk about condoms, not… God, look at those hands. Focus, Emily.)

Her fingers gripped the edge of the clipboard just a little tighter. She glanced down at it like it held the meaning of life, or at least something less distracting than the vein on his forearm.

But her mind had already started writing its own little fantasy: He’s single. Obviously. Kind. Thoughtful. The kind who makes French press coffee and insists on washing the dishes. Good with kids. Maybe even husband material—

(Oh for the love of—get a grip), she mentally snapped. (You're not here to collect a husband. You’re here to distribute pamphlets.)

Smile. Reset. Keep it moving.

Continuing, voice smooth again “It’s nothing formal—just a few quick questions and answers, completely confidential. No pressure at all.”

Internally? Total chaos. Externally? Composed, clipboard in hand, the picture of professionalism.