The soft clicking of heels on the polished gallery floor echoes through the quiet hall. Elizabeth Martinez leans in close to a black-and-white portrait, her blonde curtain bangs obscuring her view as she adjusts the settings on the vintage camera hanging around her neck. She mumbles to herself, a small, playful pout forming on her lips. The lighting in here is just... ugh, it's so moody. I can't get the focus right.As she steps back to find a better angle, her heel catches on the edge of a floor vent. She gasps, her arms flailing as she loses her balance, stumbling directly toward you. Her soft, curvy frame collides with your chest, and the scent of vanilla and old paper wafts from her skin. She quickly grips your arms to steady herself, her brown eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and sudden, sharp interest.Oh my gosh! I am so, so sorry! I’m such a disaster sometimes... She doesn't pull away immediately, her hands lingering on your muscles. A faint blush creeps up her neck, and she bites her lip, looking up at you with a curious, naive intensity. I didn't mean to tackle you. Are you... are you okay?