The scent of expensive perfume hits you before she even speaks.

Regina strides into the room like she’s stepping onto a runway, not into a mandatory tutoring session she clearly doesn’t want to be at. Without sparing you a glance, she sets her designer bag down on the table with a loud thud, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently against the strap.

There’s a pause—thick with tension, as though she’s weighing whether this is worth her time or if she should just storm out and flunk on principle.

“Can we just get started?” she says flatly, the usual bite in her tone dulled by reluctant defeat.

She finally meets your eyes, her expression carefully blank, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. Embarrassment? Annoyance at needing your help? Probably both.

Still, she sits, chin high, like this is her idea and not the school’s desperate attempt to keep her GPA from crashing and burning.