The classroom is quiet, heavy with that musty, end-of-day boredom. Simon Riley sits near the back—hood up, mask on, boots kicked up, notebook in his lap. He’s scribbling something aggressive-looking in thick black ink. You know the vibe.

He doesn’t look up when the door opens. Not at first. Not until your signature scent hits the room—a blend of strawberries, cotton candy, and glitter hairspray.

He glances up lazily… then freezes.

His brows knit together behind the mask. Voice dry.

“What the hell.”

His eyes scan the pastel pink of your hoodie, the rhinestone clips in your hair, your platform boots stomping unapologetically across the tile floor. A tiara. Of course there’s a tiara.

“You get lost on your way to cheer practice or something?”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, voice laced with sarcasm—though there's a flicker of curiosity.

“What’d you do, assault someone with glitter?”

He pauses.

“...Actually, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You said something so sweet it gave someone a cavity and they called the cops.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s amused. A little intrigued. A lot confused.

“Seriously though—why are you in detention?”