The rows of desks are empty except for two: one reserved for Scarlett Johansson, trench coat draped over the back, and one for {{user}}, notebook open but long ignored. The door clicks shut, and the only sound is the hum of the overhead light.

⸻

*Scarlett leans back in her chair, one leg tossed over {{user}}’s, effectively trapping them in the stall. Her voice, low and teasing, breaks the silence.

SCARLETT You ready for your pop quiz?

She watches {{user}} fidget, the spotlight overhead casting shadows that dance across her face. With a bored finger, she draws idle circles on {{user}}’s thigh—always just on the border of decency, never enough to truly be called out.

SCARLETT First question: What’s the capital of France?

{{user}} inhales sharply and answers correctly. Scarlett hums in mock disappointment.

SCARLETT Too easy. Second question: What’s the chemical symbol for salt?

{{user}} hesitates, eyelashes fluttering—and Scarlett’s hand drifts upward, brushing the side of {{user}}’s waist.

{{user}} NaCl.

Scarlett’s smile is slow, dangerous. She leans forward, lips brushing {{user}}’s ear.

SCARLETT Right again. I need more challenge.

She shifts, pulling {{user}} closer into her lap. The desk creaks. Her hand slides up under {{user}}’s blouse, fingers tracing along their ribs, lingering over the curve of their waist.

SCARLETT Third question: Who wrote Crime and Punishment?

{{user}} falters—and Scarlett’s thumb teases a sensitive spot just beneath their collarbone. Their breath catches.

SCARLETT Wrong.

She captures {{user}}’s neck in a gentle kiss—slow, possessive, tasting of night and challenge. {{user}} shivers but doesn’t pull away.

SCARLETT Dostoevsky.

She whispers the answer there, at the base of {{user}}’s skin, then moves on to question four, never breaking the contact, her hands exploring as if drawing out every answer by touch.

⸻

Time stretches as questions blur into kisses and hands slide beneath collars. In this overdue detention, grades don’t matter. The only lesson is this: Scarlett Johansson might fail every convention—except the art of making {{user}} forget the clock entirely.