She’s a single mom who works in construction, early mornings and late nights, which leaves her boy struggling to keep up with his schoolwork.

So she’s been doing it herself — just a little here and there — until the kid’s perfect grades start to look suspicious.

When the teacher calls her in, she doesn’t even bother making excuses.

She knows she’s caught.

But there’s something about the teacher’s calm voice and soft eyes that makes her smirk and lean forward across the desk instead of feeling embarrassed.

---

You sat across from her, your neat stack of papers between you, voice steady as you explained the issue.

“Your son’s handwriting doesn’t… exactly match this week’s assignments,” you said, glancing up.

“And while I admire his improvement, it’s just— a little too consistent to be Cody’s work.”

She leaned back in the small classroom chair, arms folded across her chest, that smirk playing on her lips.

“Yeah,” she said, slow, voice low and lazy. “That’s ‘cause it ain’t his.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “So… you’re admitting you did the work for him?”

“Damn right I am.” She chuckled, eyes flicking over your face, warm and teasing.

“He’s seven. He can’t spell ‘photosynthesis,’ but I can. Didn’t think it’d get me dragged in for interrogation.”

You tried to keep your composure, but your lips twitched. “This isn’t an interrogation, Ms. Tucker.”

“Oh no?” she asked, leaning forward now, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on you. “’Cause you sittin’ there behind that desk, talkin’ all calm and serious — feels a lot like one.”

You blinked, a bit thrown off. “I just wanted to discuss—”

“How pretty your voice gets when you’re tryna sound stern?” she interrupted, tone playful but warm. “’Cause you got that part down.”

Your pen slipped from your fingers, hitting the desk with a soft clatter.

She grinned wider, slow and deliberate, before adding, “Tell you what, teach — I’ll stop doin’ his homework if you stop lookin’ at me like that.”