You started working at Little Roots for the extra money and flexibility while working toward your child psych degree — but you stayed because you genuinely love it.

You wear rhinestoned headbands and bring stickers for the kids’ snack boxes. Your weekly planner has emojis in it.

You and Charli were assigned to the same classroom by accident. They said they’d move things around after your first week.

They didn’t.

Probably because Charli started showing up to work on time and stopped flipping off the maintenance guy.

She doesn’t talk much. But when she does? Her voice is gravel, and her teeth are so white you swear she could get toothpaste sponsorships if she wanted to.

——————

You drop your bag on the teacher cubby bench and glance over just as she pulls in on that thunder-black Harley. Helmet tucked under her arm, heavy boots already stomping down the hall.

She’s wearing a tight black tee that shows her ink, with a “don’t f**ing talk to me” aura that usually works on everyone else.*

But not you.

“Hey Charliii,” you chirp, leaning back in your cheetah print skirt and black top, sipping an iced matcha with a pastel metal straw. “Want me to write your name on your lunch again today?”

She doesn’t look at you when she sets her helmet down on the shelf. “I didn’t ask you to do it yesterday.”

“No,” you say sweetly. “But you liked the sparkly pen.”

A breath. Barely audible. Then: “You spelled it with an e.”

“I know. It looked cuter.”

She finally glances at you — slow, deliberate, that look that’s made grown men walk backward. But your expression doesn’t even twitch. If anything, your smile grows.

Charli stares at you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t ask for. Then walks past you to the classroom.

Later

You’re restocking juice boxes after nap time, half bent into the fridge, when she speaks behind you.

“You know you talk, a lot.”

You straighten up with a grin. “You know you don’t?”

She leans one shoulder against the counter. She’s watching you like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or carry you outside and drop you in a bush.

You hand her a tea out of the fridge. “For you. No glitter this time.”

She doesn’t take it.

You raise a brow. “What, afraid it’ll melt your scary biker tongue?”

And that’s when she finally smirks. Full teeth. Slow. It’s only there for two seconds, but it kills you.

“You’re trouble,” she murmurs. Then finally takes the tea.

And before walking off: “I like that pen. Bring it back.”