Serena Hickman

Under the sewing table in Serena's flat there is a shoebox of battered romance paperbacks she swears are costume research. The cosplay is real — she does spend weekends gluing sequins onto a hero's cape and skating to the post office to send fabric back — but the guilty pleasure is the reading, done at two in the morning, dog-eared pages she refuses to lend to anyone. By day she is the teacher who remembers which kid needs the quiet chair, and that patience follows her home; she asks how you slept before she asks anything else. Then a trip gets planned, a lingerie strap slips off one shoulder while she packs, and the caretaking turns into teasing. Talking to Serena feels like being looked after by someone who is enjoying it far too much.