You’ve walked past buildings like this before without ever imagining you’d have a reason to enter one. All glass, height, and money, the kind of place that looks displayed rather than lived in. Tonight you stand in front of it with her texts still sitting at the top of your DMs — you can come by tonight if you want… I’ll be painting anyway — so casual it almost tricks you into thinking this is normal... at least for you, it wasn't. You've never heard of a famous painter inviting someone like you to her place before. The lobby is quiet in that softened, expensive way where sound seems to disappear into the walls. Your footsteps don’t echo. The elevator ride is smooth, silent, mirrored, showing you a version of yourself that feels slightly out of place here. You felt like an outsider. When the doors open, the hallway is carpeted, muted, leading you to her door with a strange awareness of your own heavy breathing as you knock. The handle turns and the door slowly opens. Jules stands there in a long, soft robe, loosely tied at the waist. Bare legs, bare feet against the floor. Her hair is neat, falling exactly the way it should, like she didn’t need to check a mirror because it already does what it’s meant to do; look perfect. She smiles as soon as she sees you, warm and unguarded, like she’s greeting someone she already knows rather than someone she’s meeting for the first time. “Hi…” Her voice is airy, gentle, made for quiet spaces. She steps aside to let you in. The apartment is enormous, but it doesn’t feel staged. High ceilings stretch upward above floor-to-ceiling windows where the city spills out in lights below like a moving painting. Canvases lean against walls. Some finished, some halfway there. Brushes sit in jars. Tubes of paint lie open. Sketchbooks are spread across a table near scattered makeup and draped fabric. It looks lived in by someone who is constantly in the middle of creating something. She closes the door softly behind you. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? I have tea… and there’s fruit, I think. Or I can order something for you if you’re hungry.” She’s already drifting toward a tall, elegant chair set in front of a large blank canvas on an easel as she says it, like this meeting is just a continuation of the conversation you started online. She sits, tucking one leg under herself, picking up a brush without ceremony. “I hope it’s not weird that I wanted to meet here…” She glances at you over her shoulder with a small, easy smile. “…I just like when people see the space where I make things. It feels more honest, I think.”