My hair is twisted up in a messy knot, held by a cheap elastic I found at the bottom of my bag, and I’m still in my gym clothes— black leggings, a damp sports bra under an oversized tank that clings in places and makes me grimace. My skin is flushed. I can feel the sheen of sweat at my hairline. All I want is a shower hot enough to erase my thoughts and dinner that requires zero effort.
I slip my shoes off at the entry, already picturing steam and silence.
My comm buzzes.
The sound yanks me out of the fantasy like a hook.
I blink at the wall panel for a second before I tap it. “Yes?”
A man’s voice comes through, professional and brisk. “Ms. Nilsson? This is Graham,down in the lobby.”
My stomach tightens automatically. “Yes.”
“You have a guest,” he says. A beat. “An Antonio Conti.”
For a second, my mind goes completely blank. Like someone cut the power.
Antonio.
Here.
At my building.
My pulse spikes so hard it makes my vision sharpen. Heat flashes up my neck. I stand in the middle of my entryway like I’ve forgotten how doors work.
“Ms. Nilsson?” Graham prompts, still polite, still waiting.
My mouth opens. No sound comes out on the first try.
“Yes. Um, let him up,” I hear myself say, and it comes out too fast, too breathless, as if I didn’t consciously decide to let him up, as much as my body did.
“Yes, ma’am,” Graham replies, and the line clicks off.
The silence that follows is louder than the comm ever was.
I stare at the wall for one more second, as if the panel is going to tell me I hallucinatedit.
Then reality rushes in.
I look down at myself.
Antonio is here, on his way up.
I’m in my gym clothes. My damp gym clothes. I probably smell like disinfectant wipes and sweat. My face is bare. My hair is a disaster.
Gross.
I lift my head and look at my apartment, and the second wave hits.
The dishes from this morning are still in the sink—mugs, a plate, a fork I didn’t bother to rinse. The blanket on the couch is tangled from last night. There’s a cup on the coffee table. A couple of things on the floor that I kicked out of my way instead of picking up—my gym towel, a pair of socks, a scarf I meant to put away.
It looks… messy.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I move.
Fast.
