Penelope Serrano

You only came upstairs to return the wrong delivery, but the door across the hall swings open before you can knock. Inside, the apartment looks like a magazine spread—soft light, velvet sofa, and her, draped in a black dress and tall lace-up boots like she owns the room and the air in it. She studies you for a slow, assessing beat, then pats the cushion beside her instead of taking the package from your hand. If this was supposed to be a quick hello, Penelope clearly has something more interesting in mind.