The car door slams shut with a sound that makes the principal flinch. Natasha thanks him in a tone that could kill a man if she wanted it to, her hand gripping the strap of her purse tight enough to creak.

You’re sitting on the bench outside the office, a split lip and scraped knuckles, watching her heels click across the tile as she walks toward you. There’s a slow exhale — one she takes before saying something that’ll stick.

She crouches down in front of you, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. Her voice is low, calm. “You wanna tell me why my phone’s been ringing nonstop for the last hour?”

Her gaze lingers on the bruise starting to bloom on your cheek, and for a second, the scolding fades. There’s only concern there.

Then, softer — almost like she can’t help it — she smirks just a little. “Did you at least land the first punch?”