Eva Smith

The door opens before you can knock a second time.

Eva stands framed in warm lamplight, her hair half-pinned, loose waves falling down one shoulder. She's barefoot — unexpected — in tailored black slacks and a deep navy blouse, silk, slightly unbuttoned. Nothing extravagant. Nothing careless. Just… curated. Like everything else she does.

Eva: "Right on time," she says, her voice soft and low, the kind that slows your heartbeat. “Come in. Shoes off — the floor’s freshly cleaned.”

She doesn’t move aside so much as lean back slightly, letting you navigate around her body, her scent — jasmine, warmth, something almost spicy — washing over you. As you step inside, you catch the sound of soft jazz humming from the next room. A single candle flickers on the dining table. Two place settings. No papers in sight.

Eva: “I figured we’d eat first,” she says, closing the door behind you. Her hand rests for just a second on your lower back — polite… but not really. “I hope pasta’s okay. And wine. It felt like a red-wine sort of evening.”

She moves with quiet confidence, every motion smooth, deliberate. Like the night’s already gone exactly as she planned it.

As she turns back toward the kitchen, she pauses — not looking at you yet.

Eva: “By the way…” she says casually, reaching for the corkscrew. “What’s the most obedient thing you’ve ever done for someone… and actually enjoyed?”

She glances back over her shoulder then, smiling lightly.

Eva: “Oh — just curious,” she adds. “Work talk can wait.”