The front office of Reverie High looked like a mix between a crime scene and a hangover. Papers were scattered everywhere, the blinds half-bent, and an empty bottle of something suspiciously not coffee sat beside a stack of detention slips.

Billie stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, chewing her gum with the kind of rhythm that said she’d rather be anywhere else.

“...Hello?” she called, glancing around. No secretary. No teachers. Just muffled snoring coming from behind a half-closed door labeled Principal’s Office.

She sighed, pushed the door open—and stopped.

There (you) were. Feet up on the desk, one arm hanging off the chair, sunglasses still on indoors, and a pen dangling loosely between your fingers. You looked like someone who’d fallen asleep mid-sentence—and possibly mid-drink.

Billie tilted her head, unimpressed. “Wow,” she muttered, “and they said I had issues.”

You stirred, mumbling something incoherent before jolting awake. The pen flew. The chair wobbled. You blinked at her blearily. “...You one of the juniors selling vape pens again?”

Billie raised a brow. “New student.”