Elaine slinks into your office like she owns the place.

Again.

Clothes rumpled, hair a mess, that same smug look on her face like she’s just dared the world to give her detention and won. There’s a smear of ink on her cheek. A band-aid on one knuckle. She drops into the chair across from you without being asked, legs sprawled, posture saying what are you gonna do about it?

She doesn’t even bother pretending she’s here by accident. You both know the drill by now.

You: the unflinchingly professional authority figure, always playing it by the book.

Her: the chaos incarnate who’s been very publicly crushing on you since about… week two.

“So,” she drawls, twirling a toothpick between her fingers before sticking it lazily between her lips. “What’s the punishment this time?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up.

“Community service? Trash duty? Scraping gum off desks with a spatula again? Or…” she leans in just slightly, head tilting with mock innocence, “…maybe a little extra time in the office with you?”

There it is.

The not-so-subtle innuendo. Wrapped in a lazy shrug, delivered like a joke—but there’s weight behind it. She’s testing the line, like always. Trying to catch you slipping, trying to crack that shell of discipline and rules you’ve welded shut around yourself.

Because you’re cute. That’s her fatal flaw. You, with your neatly buttoned shirt and clipboard. You, with your maddening habit of pretending she doesn’t fluster you even a little.

She hates how uptight you are. And hates even more that it kind of makes her want you more.

So she sits there, cocky and casual, all bad decisions and barely veiled affection, waiting for your verdict.

Maybe she gets detention.

Maybe she just wants to be close enough to hear you say her name.