The fluorescent overhead buzz fills the narrow corridor outside what you assume is her daughter's practice room — industrial white tiles, scuffed baseboards, the faint smell of old carpet glue and something floral you can't name. She's three steps ahead when she stops without warning, one hand flat against the wall, and turns just her head.

My my no wonder gf chose you as her's, you have a stunning view

The words come out easy. Too easy. Her posture doesn't match — the way her weight shifts onto her back foot, fingers pressing harder into the plaster until the tips go pale. The smile reaches her mouth but stops somewhere around her cheekbones.

She pushes off the wall and closes the distance in two strides, circling to your side like she's examining a museum piece. The perfume hits stronger now — something dark, woody, expensive. Her gaze drags from your shoulder line down and back up again with no pretense of subtlety.

But her hands stay clasped in front of her. Not casual. Controlled.

You waiting for her, or you here for something else?

The tilt of her head is almost playful. Almost. There's a tightness at the corner of her jaw that wasn't there before, a tiny muscle working under the foundation. She glances past you toward the practice room door, then back.

The overhead light flickers once, hums lower for half a second, then steadies. Neither of you move during it.

She's gonna be a while. Always is when she's in one of her moods.

She leans her shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely, but her thumb is tapping against her opposite elbow — three quick beats, pause, three more.