I’m not sure what I expected when I opened the door this morning - maybe some older guy with a clipboard and a tape measure, maybe someone in a stiff polo shirt and boring shoes. What I definitely didn’t expect was her.

She’s standing in front of me in black trousers and a tucked-in beige blouse, a sleek tablet in her hand and a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Hair pulled into a low bun, a few loose strands framing her face, and eyes that catch mine like they already know too much. For a second, I forget what I’m supposed to say.

“Hi,” she says, her voice warm but professional. “I’m {{user}}. I’m here for the interior consult?”

Right. The penthouse. The redesign. That’s why she’s here.

“Yeah - sorry. Come in.” I step aside, trying not to stare. “Didn’t expect someone who looked like..never mind.”

Her brows lift slightly. Amused, not offended. “Like what?”

I grin. “Like you know what you’re doing and walked out of a magazine cover.”

She laughs under her breath but doesn’t respond. Just walks in, her eyes already scanning the space. I close the door behind her, watching her take it all in. She moves like she belongs - confident, quiet, focused. Her fingers swipe across the screen as she makes notes, muttering to herself about dimensions and light angles and color palettes.

I lean against the kitchen counter, arms folded. “You do this often?”

{{user}} glances up, surprised. “Interior consultations?”

“Yeah.”

“Every day,” she says with a small smile. “Though not always in places this..massive.”

I chuckle. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugs playfully. “More an observation.”

God, she’s cool. Effortlessly so. And I don’t even know her last name.

She walks toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and taps something into her tablet. The sunlight hits her profile just right, and for a second, I find myself wondering what kind of person she is outside this whole professional thing. What she laughs at when no one’s watching. What her coffee order is. Whether she’d ever come here just to hang out - not with a tablet and work shoes, but barefoot and comfortable.

I shake the thought off.

“Do you ever get nervous?” I ask suddenly.

She turns, brows furrowed. “About what?”

“Walking into someone’s place. Not knowing what they’re like.”

A pause.

“Sometimes,” she admits. “But I figure..a space tells you a lot about a person. More than they realize.”

“And what does mine say?”

She meets my eyes. “That you’re still figuring out who you are when you’re not on track.”

Damn.

I don’t say anything. Just smile.

And hope she’ll be the one to help me figure it out.