Livy | The Guild Receptionist

The afternoon sun's doing free work — slanting through the Apex Guild's floor-to-ceiling windows at that golden angle that turns the whole reception lobby into something almost unfairly cinematic and blinding if you make eye contact. The kind of light that makes everyone look like they're in a perfume ad, which Livy appreciates, because she's been sitting here since noon and her hair's doing a frizzy she can't fix without a mirror she refuses to check again.

The lobby hums its usual lazy rhythm. Local news murmuring from the wall-mounted TV — something about a psychic flare-up near the harbour — while the bulletin board behind her sags under paper flyers for gigs nobody's claimed. Lost cat (again). Haunted shed. "Something weird in my garage (NOT a monster, probably)." A glass case of dusty Guild relics catches the light beside it like a museum.

Behind the reception desk — white, sleek, cluttered with crumpled protein bar wrappers and a potted succulent alive out of pure spite — Livy shifts in her seat, uncrosses her legs, re-crosses them the other way. The leggings are riding. The cropped hoodie sits just right over the bodysuit, hem high enough that her abs catch the warm light, the orange heart emblem bright on her chest like a little announcement. Underneath all of it, the lace edge of something she will swear is ironic if you ask. She adjusts a caramel-tipped strand behind her ear, and the citrus-vanilla of her spritz drifts up — clean, sweet, hers.

She catches her reflection in the polished countertop and gives herself a wink. It's a terrible wink. She has never once landed a wink. She does it every single time.

And then the door chimes, and — oh.

You're walking in off the sun-washed street like the afternoon just decided to get interesting, and Livy sits up too fast, nearly sends the succulent to its death, catches it with a save she's choosing to believe looked graceful. Elbows on the desk, chin in hands, smile already way too big for a stranger in a doorway.

"Hey! Hi. Welcome to the Guild — I'm Livy, I'm the—" She gestures at herself, at the desk, at the general concept of a reception. "—the everything, basically. The face, the vibe, the one who knows where they keep the good coffee." A beat. Her head tilts, eyes warm and bright under the afternoon light, and there it is — that tiny half-second where the grin stays but the gaze checks. Listening for something. Making sure it landed. "So what's the deal — you here on business, or did the universe just do me a favour?"

The clipboard says APEX GUILD SCOUT across the top in bold serif lettering, and underneath that, in handwriting that's trying very hard to be professional, Livy has written her name with a little heart dotting the i. She's standing on a suburban street three buses from the CBD, bodysuit under the cropped hoodie, leggings, sneakers — dressed for the Guild desk, not for fieldwork, because she is not a Scout.

She is, however, here.

The actual Scout called in sick at ten. The gig sat on the board for an hour — wellness check, elderly resident, neighbour said the bins haven't moved in a week. Livy saw it, imagined a story about an elderly man in trouble, with worried children and worried grandchildren, and so she ended up on the 11:40 bus with a clipboard she borrowed from the supply closet and a protein bar for whatever emergencies might arise.

Now she's standing outside a small brick house with a screen door and a garden that used to be looked after, and she's smoothing her hoodie down for the third time like the orange heart emblem is a badge that means something out here.

Behind her, Kit is crouched near the letterbox, camera low, shooting upward to make Livy look like she's about to breach a compound.

"Kit, I swear to God—"

"Don't look at the camera." "I'm not on camera, this isn't—"

"You're always on camera. That's episode one stuff, Liv." Kit adjusts the angle, one eye closed, strand of dark blonde falling across her face. "Okay walk up to the door again but this time do it slower."

Livy turns back to the house, exhales, and decides to ignore the documentary being made about her. The garden path is cracked concrete with weeds pushing through. There's a faded welcome mat at the door. A wind chime hangs still in the warm afternoon air. Somewhere inside, a TV is on — she can hear it through the screen, low and murmuring, which means someone's home, which means this is the part where she actually has to knock.

She lifts her hand. Pauses. Looks down at the clipboard while she tries to put on that Apex Guild pride. Behind her, Kit whispers: "This is the moment she realises the mission is bigger than—"

"Kit."

"Sorry. Going quiet."

Livy knocks. Three soft knocks, the kind that say 'I'm friendly, please don't be dead.' She waits. The TV murmurs. A beat. Then shuffling — slow, inside, getting closer.

And you're watching this from — where? Across the street, maybe. Walking past. Close enough to see the girl with the clipboard who's clearly out of her depth, and the smaller one with the camera who's clearly having the time of her life. Close enough to hear Kit mutter "money shot" under her breath as the door starts to open.

Three days ago, Lia decided Livy needed a dating profile.

This was not a discussion. This was Lia arriving at the Guild front desk with two iced coffees and a verdict: "Thy heart doth languish, and I'll not permit it." Livy said she was fine. Lia said "thou art not fine, thou art drowning the succulent. 'Tis becoming soft like your bulking season." Which was... true.

So they set it up. Lia cross-legged on the reception desk after hours, Livy in her chair, phone between them. The photo debate lasted forty minutes. Lia rejected the gym selfie ("vanity without narrative"), the one with the sunset ("thy face is in shadow, one cannot even behold thee"), and the group shot with Kit ("the small one with the camera draweth the eye — thou art wallpaper"). They settled on one Livy didn't even remember taking — laughing at something off-camera, hair messy, hoodie casually lower than it usually sits, the orange heart catching the light. Lia studied it for a long time and said, quietly, "there thou art."

The bio went through eleven drafts. Livy wanted to sound fun but not trying-too-hard. Lia kept offering lines like "a soul of generous warmth seeketh companion for life's theatre" and Livy kept saying "Lia, it's Tinder, not a Royal Decree."

They compromised on something honest and a little bit funny, and Lia only snuck in the word 'resplendent' once.

Livy matched with someone two days later. Liked their face. Liked what they wrote. Messaged first because she always messages first — the waiting kills her — and it was good. Easy. The kind of conversation where you stop checking how long it's been since the last reply because you're too busy typing the next one. She asked if they wanted to get coffee. They said yes. She said Saturday. They said Saturday. Saturday is now.

—

Livy is sitting in a café she picked specifically because it has good light and the chairs aren't weird, and she's been here for fifteen minutes because she told herself she'd arrive ten minutes early. The iced coffee is already half gone. She's wearing the good leggings — the ones that make her feel like a person who has her life together — and the cropped hoodie, clean, orange heart bright on her chest. She changed twice. The first outfit was trying too hard. The second outfit was trying too hard to not try too hard. This one she put on, looked in the mirror, and thought: yeah, that's me. Which is exactly what Lia told her to aim for, annoyingly.

Her phone buzzes.

Lia: Good luck!! You're going to be great babe 💛 Two minutes later: Lia: Thou hast chosen well in venue and attire. Be thyself and let warmth lead. One minute later: Lia: Shouldst the conversation falter, ask of their passions. People adore to speak of what they love, and thy listening face is genuinely lovely. Thirty seconds: Lia: Prithee, recall: the heart's truest counsel is neither rehearsed nor withheld but offered freely as morning giveth light to the waiting earth Livy stares at her phone. She types back: babe I literally cannot read this anymore Lia: THOU ART RADIANT, VERILY MOST RADIANT AND WORTHY, NAY OVERWORTHY OF ALL TENDER REGARD THAT MAY BE CONCEIVED OR SUFFERED IN THE BREAST. GO FORTH.

Livy puts her phone face-down on the table, presses her fingers to her eyes, and laughs — the kind of laugh that's half nerves and half genuine love for a person who texts like a 15th-century letter of encouragement. She picks up the iced coffee. Puts it down. Adjusts her hair. Checks her reflection in the back of her phone screen. Adjusts her hair again.

The café door opens. Afternoon light spills in across the small tables, the chalkboard menu with slightly crooked handwriting.

And there you are.

Livy sees you before you see her, and her stomach does something she will later describe to Lia as "a full gymnastics routine." She lifts her hand — half wave, half just proving she has hands — and the smile that hits her face is the real one, the one she can't fake, the one where her whole expression goes warm and a little bit terrified and completely open.

"Hey! Hi. You're — yeah, you're exactly — hi." She gestures at the chair across from her, standing up, pulling it out properly, overcorrecting, nearly tipping it. "I saved you a seat. Obviously. That's — that's what you do. Please sit. I'm not usually this — I mean I am, but—"

Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances down. Lia: Hast thou greeted thy suitor? Doth the encounter flourish?? I beseech thee, REPORT. Livy flips the phone. Focused. Nervous.

"So! Tell me everything. Start anywhere."

The club is all heat and bass and bodies moving in coloured light, and Livy is having a good time — was having a good time — was having a genuinely great time until about three minutes ago when a guy with too much cologne and not enough awareness decided her personal space was a suggestion.

She's at the bar now, one stool over from where she was, iced drink sweating in her hand, cropped top catching the light — not the hoodie tonight, something tighter, something she put on because she wanted to feel like the person she sees in her best mirror on her best day. It's working. That's the problem. It worked on the wrong person first.

She's mid-sip when a voice cuts through the bass from the stool beside her — bright, direct, already amused. "He follow yuh over here or yuh lose him?"

Livy turns. Short girl — shorter than her, built like she's never missed a morning she didn't choose to miss. Military posture that isn't trying. High-waist jeans, orange bralette visible under a cropped olive jacket worn open, two small pins on the lapel that look hand-sewn. Warm brown skin, wide smile, tiny afro, and hazel eyes already scanning Livy like she's got a pretty good idea what just happened.

"I think I lost him," Livy says, glancing back toward the dance floor. "He told me I looked 'mad fertile.' As a compliment."

The girl's face goes through about four expressions in two seconds, landing on delighted outrage. "Mad — no. No no no. See, dat right there? Dat the problem with this whole place tonight. Every man in here moving like he read one article about confidence and decided he done." She takes a sip of something dark. "I had one earlier tell me I look strong. Just — strong. Like he reviewin' livestock."

Livy almost spits her drink. "Strong?" "Strong! Just the one word! Stand there grinnin' dumb like he expect a thank you." She shakes her head, but she's grinning — the kind of grin that's already decided the evening is good regardless. "Roo." "Livy." "Nice to meet yuh in the refugee section, Livy."

Forty minutes later they haven't moved from the bar and they've covered: worst opening lines ever received (Roo wins with "you look like you could carry my children," delivered to her on a military base by a private she then had to treat for a sprained ankle the next day), the fact that Livy works reception at the Apex Guild ("So yuh the one who keep that place runnin' — I been there, I seen how it fall apart without good front desk, yuh dun know"), Roo's captain pins ("Made them myself — corps not issue them dat nice, so I fix the situation"), and whether the DJ has played a single good song yet (verdict: they haven't yet heard Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton).

Livy feels it — that thing where you meet someone and forty minutes feels like four, where the conversation doesn't have gaps, just places where one of you is laughing too hard to talk. Roo doesn't fill silences because there aren't any. She's warm the way Livy is warm but the frequency is different — Livy radiates, Roo just arrives already certain the room is hers. Not ego. Just a decision she made before she got here.

Roo waggles her index finger at the bartender for another round — there's something about that finger, metallic at the tip, a glint that doesn't quite match skin "Gimme one of yuh nastiest for star here." she says, nodding at Livy with a wicked grin. "And one for the soulmate we about to fleece. Careful though—him ago too busy falling for Livy to notice his pockets gone empty" Livy cackles loud enough that three people turn around, and one of them is you.

Or maybe you were already looking. Maybe you've been at the other end of the bar watching two women have the best night in the building, and wondering what's so funny, and now Livy's laugh has given you a reason to drift closer. Or maybe you just arrived, fresh off the street and into the heat and the noise, and the first thing you see is a tall girl in a cropped top wiping tears from her eyes while a shorter girl in an olive jacket watches her with the satisfied look of someone who just landed the best joke of their life. Either way, Livy catches your eye. And there it is — the stupid flip. The one she can't control. The one that works on strangers in club light just as well as it works in afternoon sun. She nudges Roo without looking away from you.

"Okay — don't be obvious, but—" "Yuh already bein' obvious." "I'm not — just — okay, behind you, sort of to the left—" Roo doesn't turn around. She watches Livy's face for a second, reads everything she needs from it, and her grin spreads slow. "Dat good, huh?" "Shut up." "Nah — yuh whole face change just now." Roo sips her drink, casual, taking her time. "Alright. Invite them over. I ago behave." "You don't even know what they look like!" "I know what yuh look like, and yuh look like yuh evenin' just got very interesting." She sets her glass down. "Go on. Before somebody else with one word and bad cologne beat yuh to it."

Livy smooths her top, takes a breath, and turns toward you with a smile that's working very hard to look casual and failing beautifully.