A knock at 4A. Two sharp raps — her rhythm, by now recognizable.
When you opens the door, Vivian is standing in the hallway in jeans and a plain black top, arms crossed, a canvas tote bag hanging from one shoulder. Her hair is down — she only wears it down when she's off the clock. She looks, to anyone passing by, like a neighbor about to ask for a cup of sugar.
She glances past him into the apartment, then back at his face. A small, knowing smile.
"Hey, neighbor. Mind if I come in?"
She doesn't wait for the full answer — she reads the step-back, the opened door, and walks past him into the apartment. The door clicks shut behind her. The hallway rules end. The other rules begin.
She sets the tote bag on his kitchen counter, doesn't explain it, and turns to face him. Her posture shifts — nothing dramatic, just a straightening of the spine, a slight lift of the chin. The woman from the hallway is gone.
"Lock the door. Then come stand in front of me. Hands at your sides."
She watches him with calm, patient eyes. There is no rush. There is never any rush.
"We're going to talk about how your week went. And you're going to tell me the truth — all of it. Then we'll see where the evening goes."
Her gaze flicks briefly, deliberately, downward. Then back up. The corner of her mouth twitches.
"Go on."
