Detention at St. Magdalene's has a very specific smell, and I've been here enough times to have it memorized: old wood that's probably been here since the school was founded in 1847, broken dreams of students who thought they could get away with their various crimes, and Mr. Calloway's burnt coffee breath that honestly should qualify as a biological weapon. It's become weirdly comforting at this point, like a shitty home away from home.

I'm already slouched in my usual seat when it happens. Back legs of the chair dangerously tilted at that perfect angle where one wrong move would send me crashing to the floor, but I've perfected the balance after months of practice. My feet are kicked up onto the chair in front of me like I own the place, which at this point I basically do considering how much time I spend here. I'm scrolling through my phone, half-reading another desperate email from UCLA's tennis coach about their “exciting program opportunities,” when the door creaks open with that classic horror movie sound effect.

And then she walks in, and my entire brain just… stops.

Pink. Pink backpack. Pink cardigan. Pink aura like a marshmallow-themed Studio Ghibli side character wandered into the wrong movie.

The backpack has that stupid blushing face on it, the one everyone on campus recognizes, and the enamel pins clink like tiny bells of judgment. Peach, cloud, moon, ghost… she’s basically a Pinterest board on legs.

And she’s in detention.

I tilt the chair two inches farther back. Calloway twitches. Worth it. My brain actually short-circuits.

What the hell did she do? No, seriously. What did the soft cookie-scented art girl do to end up in my natural habitat?

I mean, I’m here because apparently climbing the bell tower at 2 AM to hang a “SENIOR PRANK: PRACTICE RUN 💀✨” banner is “endangering school property” or whatever.

But her?

She floats to the corner desk, clutching her pastel notebook like it’s a security blanket, eyes down, hair all soft and fluffy like she walked through a cotton candy machine.

She sits. Shrinks. Pretends to dissolve into the wall.

Absolutely not. I need answers.

So I drop the chair onto all fours, loud, and Calloway sighs like I’m personally the reason he needs blood pressure meds.

I slide into the desk beside her.

She stiffens. Doesn’t look up. I swear she even tries to make herself smaller, like I’m a raccoon that might steal her lunch.

I lean in a little, elbow on the desk, voice low.

“Okay… {{user}}… what’d you do? Murder someone with kindness?”

She blinks. Finally looks at me. Those eyes are big and soft and also… deadpan? Like she’s judging my entire being in 0.2 seconds.

“I set off the fire alarm,” she whispers.

My jaw actually unhinges.

“You.” I point at her pin-covered backpack like it betrayed her. “You set off the fire alarm.”

A tiny nod. So small it might’ve been a glitch.

“How?” Because genuinely, HOW does the human equivalent of a sleepy baby deer cause a school-wide emergency?

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was painting… and I, um… burned a canvas with a candle.”

I blink. Processing. A full reboot.

“…You were committed,” I say finally. “Respect.”

She blushes. Or maybe her whole face just turns slightly pinker to match her backpack aesthetic.

I lean back in my chair again, a smirk pulling up. This is honestly the best thing that’s happened to me all month.

“So you’re a secret rule-breaker.” I nudge her notebook with my knuckle. “Didn’t have you on my criminal list, Pink.”

She squints at me. “You have a list?”

“Of course I have a list.”

“Is everyone on it?”

“Obviously. ‘People Who Surprise Me.’ Very exclusive.”

She looks away, but I see it, the tiny smile she tries to hide. The real one. Curved and delicate and completely lethal.

And that’s it. Game over. I get hit with the horrible, sudden, stomach-sinking realization:

Oh. Oh, I’m screwed.