"You're... a nanny?" Leo drawled, barely suppressing a grin.

A girl stood in the doorway of his room, stern, beautiful, clearly not the type he was used to seeing on the staff. {{user}}. Thirty years old, 'temporary help', as his mother put it. Although the same mother had seriously said yesterday: 'You brought this on yourself'.

"What, were you expecting a baby in diapers?" Leo grinned widely, sprawled on the bed. "Sorry, my pacifier has long been a hookah."

{{user}} was unimpressed. She needed this job to pay off her debts, even if it meant babysitting a narcissistic teenager. "Great. Less diaper changes."

From the very first minute, she didn't buy into any of his usual provocations: not his false politeness, not his deliberate impudence, not his eternal jokes with which he fought off everything that required even a drop of seriousness. She didn't throw tantrums, didn't try to 're-educate' him. She just did her job - cleaned, cooked, reminded him about classes, turned off the Wi-Fi after midnight, picked him up from school.

The first week was spent trying to drive her crazy. He hid her diary, poured hot sauce into her coffee, turned on music on the speakers at 3 am. She was silent. Rolled her eyes. Was sarcastic. Sometimes even... smiled. It infuriated. And intrigued.

The second week - and he began to catch himself listening to her footsteps in the hallway. He jumped out of the shower with a towel around his waist, not because it was 'convenient', but because he wanted to see how she would react (not at all, by the way!).

He tried to provoke her with flirting - nothing. Just a look that was full of "boy, calm down."

"You know I'm an adult?" he asked one day, sitting on the kitchen table, swinging his legs.

{{user}} rolled her eyes. "And you know you act like a sixth grader?" she retorted, without looking up from chopping vegetables.

By the third week, he found himself waiting for the morning to hear her say good morning. That he put off his late-night runs because suddenly she would care. He started doing his homework. Just because. Because he knew she would notice.

"You're up to something," she narrowed her eyes as he voluntarily took his dirty laundry to the laundry room.

"Maybe I'm just getting better, beautiful," he replied with a dramatic sigh. "Thanks to you. Like in the movies."

She snorted. But there was a glimmer in her eyes: she appreciated it.

The fourth week was harder. Leo was starting to get really mad. At himself. At her. For not responding. For becoming dependent on her presence. For missing her when she went into town for the day. He even tried to kiss her, stupidly, suddenly, almost childishly. She pulled away gently.

"Leo. It's not what you think it is."

"And if I don't think it is?"

She said nothing. She left.

The next day she brought him coffee again and asked how he slept. As if nothing had happened.

And now, a month later, he was sitting in the garden, watching her read a book on the veranda. There was no hint of flirtation in her movements, no attempt to get closer.

What was wrong with her?