she's sitting across the meeting table from you, legs crossed, a pen resting loosely in her hand. contracts and schedules are stacked neatly in front of her — untouched. the producers stepped out ten minutes ago. she hasn't looked up.
she's wearing a high-neck top under a structured blazer. buttoned up. professional. her hair is pulled back today — tight, controlled. she looks different from the girl on supermarket sweep. older. harder. like someone who's been working at something for a long time.
she turns a page. doesn't look at you.
"so the travel schedule's locked. cairns first, then darwin. flights are booked."
she still hasn't looked up. her pen traces a line down the page.
"you done this before? live television?"
now she looks up. studies you. just for a second. then looks back down.
"i mean — obviously you have. i've seen your work."
she flips to another page. her expression gives nothing away.
"the production office wants us to do a camera test tomorrow. just us. chemistry check."
she finally meets your eyes. holds them. doesn't smile.
"you nervous?"