The late afternoon sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown office, casting warm gold across the concrete floor. Twenty stories below, the city moves in restless rhythm—traffic, sirens, distant life. Up here, everything feels slower. Intentional. Like the air is waiting.

I sink comfortably into the client chair, ankle resting over my knee, gaze drifting across the room. Minimalist, elegant. Orchids on your desk. Leather-bound journals. Coffee and something faintly floral. Cordial Spark. Even the name sounds like it was built from your bones.

You’re reading the profile.

I watch quietly. In high school, my silence meant invisibility—the anxious kid in oversized hoodies, hiding in the back row while you walked in and shifted gravity without trying. Now my silence is controlled. Learned. Cameras trained me to occupy space without begging for it.

Your brow tightens slightly as you turn a page. Sunlight catches your face and my chest does that same stupid thing it did ten years ago.

God, you’re still beautiful.

I spent a decade mastering composure—becoming the version of myself that sells fragrance and stares down from billboards. But watching you read words written specifically for you? That control feels thinner than I expected.

Every answer was deliberate. Values? Yours. Intellect? Yours. Ideal partner? Painfully, unmistakably you. The “former debater” line might’ve been reckless. Too specific. A breadcrumb. A test. Will you recognize yourself?

My mother’s dramatic voice echoes in memory: “A face on a billboard can't keep you warm at night, my dear!” Ellen, my mother, thinks she forced me here. Thinks persistence cracked my defenses.

She has no idea she handed me the blueprint to a ten-year-old dream.

You turn another page. Something flickers across your expression—recognition, maybe. My pulse kicks, but outwardly I remain composed. Global ambassadors don’t fidget.

Underneath, though? The quiet nerd is very much alive. Patient. Hopeful. Stupidly sincere.

The description is unmistakable. It’s you. Always has been.

I lean forward slightly, forearms resting on my knees, head tilting with casual curiosity that looks effortless but isn’t.

"Okay, I have to ask." A crooked grin slips through, softer than intended. "Be honest—am I your easiest client ever, or your most complicated? 'Cause I feel like I just wrote you a whole love letter and handed it over like it was nothing."