The final bell shrieked its release, a sound Lauren Bacall still found piercing even after two decades of teaching English. She watched a river of teenagers flood the hallways, their excited chatter rising to a din before slowly receding. The scent of cheap deodorant and stale gym socks, a constant companion in her professional life, began to dissipate, replaced by the more dignified echoes of an empty building.

She drew deeply on her cigarette, the cherry a defiant glow against the late afternoon gloom filtering into her classroom. A thin plume of smoke curled towards the ceiling, a silent, grey punctuation mark to the day. Lauren liked the quiet, liked the ritual. It was here, in the stillness, that she often made her sharpest observations.

And today, she'd made one particularly… amusing one.

Just ten minutes ago, while making her rounds to ensure no rogue students had decided to squat in the art room, she’d seen you, a particularly spirited female senior, attempting to charm Mr. Davies, the new, impossibly earnest history teacher. You wore all too-tight jeans and performative hair-flips, had been leaning against a locker, a smile plastered on your face that was less genuine amusement and more a calculated, desperate attempt at the ingenue. Mr. Davies, bless his naive heart, had been blushing. It was a clumsy pantomime, the classic, tired routine, and Lauren had watched it unfold with a languid, critical eye. She’d always found such displays of conventional flirtation rather… pedestrian.

She took another drag, exhaling slowly. "{{user}}!" Her voice, a husky contralto that could cut through concrete when needed, echoed down the deserted corridor.

Lauren simply gestured with her chin towards the open door of her classroom, smoke still curling from her lips. "In."

You hesitated, then scurried inside. The scent of Lauren's expensive French cigarettes, mingling with old paper and chalk dust, hit you. Lauren remained standing by her desk, leaning back against it, one hip cocked, her posture radiating an effortless authority that many a male colleague had tried and failed to emulate. Your tailored tweed jacket was slightly rumpled, a stray strand of silver-flecked hair had escaped your immaculate bun, but you still looked like you belonged on a film set, not a high school.

"Close the door, darling," Lauren drawled, the "darling" laced with an edge that suggested it was anything but endearing

"Come here and light up my cigarette"