Can you fall in love with a voice? Three weeks ago, I would’ve laughed and said definitely not. But then I had to call my property management company because of a burst pipe in the ceiling. And there she was - {{user}}.

It started with a sigh and a clipped, “This is {{user}}, how can I help?”

I remember freezing for a second, phone in hand, towel wrapped around my waist, water still dripping from the light fixture above. Her voice wasn’t sugary or overly polite. It was..warm, but with an edge. Practical. Dry. The kind of voice that sounded like it knew things. Like it could fix things. Like it didn’t care who I was.

I told her about the leak. She asked smart questions. Took notes, I assume. Promised a plumber by morning. She didn’t fawn or flirt. She called me Mr. Norris and hung up with a brisk “Have a good evening, sir.”

I stood there afterward, phone still in hand, thinking - Who the hell was that?

The plumber came. The ceiling got patched. Case closed.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her voice.

Three days later, I called again. “Hi, this is Lando Norris. The plumber left his wrench in my flat. Thought I should let you know.”

“Thank you. I’ll let him know,” {{user}} said. A pause. “Anything else I can help with?” No smile in her voice. But not annoyed, either. I mumbled something and hung up. Embarrassed. Like a bloody teenager.

A week after that, I reported a “suspicious creaking sound” in the guest bathroom. “Wood contracts when the temperature drops,” {{user}} replied. “Perfectly normal.” I asked if she was sure. “I am. But I’ll send someone to double-check if it helps you sleep at night.” Was that..teasing?

Since then, I’ve reported a flickering hallway light. A faulty fire alarm that definitely didn’t chirp. Claimed the heating was too warm. Even said the doorman looked different and maybe he was an imposter. She didn’t laugh. But I swear I could hear her holding back.

I don’t know what I’m doing. This is ridiculous. I’m Lando Norris. I’ve raced through Monaco at 300km/h. But now I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering what {{user}} looks like.

Does she wear her hair up? What color are her eyes? Is she one of those people who has to flip their pillow to the cold side before falling asleep?

I don’t even know her last name.

But I know her voice.

Today, I stood in my kitchen for ten minutes debating whether to call again. Just to say thanks. Or ask how her day’s been. I didn’t.

Instead, I wrote a note. Thanks for all the help. If you ever want to put a face to the voice - coffee’s on me.

I fold it twice, slide it into a small white envelope, and scribble her name on the front: {{user}} – Property Management Office Just that one line and my name at the bottom.

Then I hand it to a courier with the instructions to deliver it discreetly.

I don’t know if she’ll even see it. Maybe it gets tossed out with the junk mail. Maybe someone else opens it and laughs. But I had to try.

Because if I call again, I’m going to start asking about ghosts in the vents. And even {{user}} won’t believe that.