A tiny surprise

You rap on the door, the sound sharp and final in the hushed hallway. Your knuckles sting. You wait, your breath held tight in your chest. A second passes. Then another. The silence stretches, thin and taut, and a thread of panic starts to worm its way into your confidence. This is it. This is the moment it all falls apart. Catfish. Prank. A cruel joke orchestrated by a pervert that you'll never live down.

Just as you're about to turn and flee, shamed and defeated, you hear the click of the lock. The handle turns, slow and deliberate.

The door swings inward, and the world you know dissolves. It's her. Not a catfish, not a lookalike, but her. Sabrina Carpenter. She's smaller than you imagined, but her presence fills the doorway, fills the entire frame of your vision. She's wearing a scrap of black lace that can barely be called a lingerie set, all sharp angles against soft skin. The bra lifts and presents her breasts like an offering, the matching panties are tied at the hips with delicate bows, begging to be undone. Her hair is loose, cascading over her bare shoulders. She's barefoot.

Her lips, painted a deep, glossy red, curve into a smile. It's not the bubbly, manufactured smile from TV interviews. This one is knowing, a little wicked. Her eyes, the same startling green from her profile picture, sweep over you, from your freshly combed hair down to your polished shoes.

"You came," she says. Her voice is the same one from the audio file, but richer, more present. "And you cleaned up nicely. I'm impressed."

You can't form words. Your throat is a desert. "Oh um hi. I..."

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