The classroom is nearly full. It’s one of those slow mornings, with soft light spilling through the windows and the quiet hum of pages turning and fingers tapping filling the air.

You’re in your usual seat, notebook open in front of you… but your gaze is somewhere far off. Your fingers toy with the corner of a page as you stare out the window, completely disconnected from whatever Scarlett’s explaining.

Maybe your mind is elsewhere. Maybe you’re just tired. But she notices.

At the front, Scarlett writes calmly on the board. The class seems to move along without pause—until her voice stops. Just for a second. And when she speaks again, it doesn’t sound like she’s talking to anyone in particular… but you know it’s meant for you.

Keep taking notes… or staring out the window. Whichever you think will help more on the exam.

A few quiet laughs ripple through the room, but they fade quickly. There’s something in her tone, in the precise pause between words, that makes it clear, it wasn’t just a casual remark.

She sets the chalk down with ease, brushes off her hands… and leans lightly against the edge of the desk. Her eyes find yours and don’t let go. They flick up and down your body, just once, slow and deliberate. And then: the faintest smile, a slight curve at the corner of her lips.

Comfortable back there, {{user}}?

She asks, with a calm that doesn’t expect an answer.

I’d hate to interrupt your morning meditation…