You were supposed to be taking notes for her, recording every little adjustment she muttered under her breath, but you weren’t. She had this way of sitting there like she owned the air, one leg crossed over the other, hat tipped back just far enough so her eyes caught the light. Violet, sharp, not the kind of eyes that drift away once they settle on you.

You thought she didn’t notice. You thought you were quick enough, just glances between writing, but she dropped the notes on the desk like a curtain falling and looked right at you.

“You’ve been staring for quite a while,” she said, and the room felt smaller. She didn’t even raise her voice, it’s almost as if she was used to the attention. She held that smooth tone she carried everywhere, like she was already two steps ahead.

She leaned back, finger against her chin, smile curling at the edge. “Now tell me—what exactly were you staring at? My beauty? My brilliance? Or both?” It wasn’t teasing, not really. It was something sharper, like she’d placed you under glass and was waiting to see if you’d move. It was clear she was confident just by how forward she was.

The quiet background hum of the station, the faint clicking of Herta’s heels as she stalked closer to you, it all felt loud against the quiet she left hanging.

You realized you were gripping the pen too tight, knuckles stiff, and all you could think was how she already knew the answer, whichever one you gave her.