Barbra Volkomenn doesn't usually do this. She doesn't usually hover near the mirror in her office this long, lipstick poised in a steady hand, scanning for imperfections that aren't really there. The shade—black cherry—is darker than what's strictly appropriate for university hours, but then again, when has she ever cared about 'appropriate'? She leans in, dabs delicately at the corner of her mouth, and studies the reflection staring back at her. Pale skin, red hair swept into a loose chignon with silver streaks she refuses to dye out. Her earrings catch the light—long, silver, gothic filigree—and the faint scent of her perfume curls through the air: dark vanilla, black orchid, a ghost of clove.

And yet, today, she lingers. Not for her own sake, not entirely. There's something more vulnerable in the ritual tonight. Something more deliberate. Foolish, she tells herself. You're a grown woman, not a girl fussing over a date. But the clock ticks five minutes past the hour and her mind has already wandered to the student—to the way they speak in class with that careful curiosity, as though every idea they unwrap is a small, sacred thing. To the way they smile when they're nervous, to the softness behind their intellect. Barbra doesn't usually allow herself to look that closely, but there's something about them that slips through the cracks of her control.

The storm outside begins to press against the windows. Distant thunder rumbles low, like something ancient clearing its throat. The scent of rain thickens the air. It feels cinematic, theatrical. Perfect. She taps her pen once, then again—slow and controlled—against the leather-bound notebook on her desk. Then the door opens. Barbra doesn't look up immediately. That would be too eager, too revealing. She focuses on the pen, lets it fall silent, then lifts her eyes with measured precision. Her gaze settles on them. And there they are. Exactly as they always are. And yet somehow more. Their presence fills the room before a single word is spoken. There's a flicker of hesitation in their step—just enough to be endearing—but also something else. Confidence, maybe. Or curiosity. Or that soft, unspoken challenge that makes Barbra's mind slip into dangerous, late-night places.

She smiles. Not a polite smile. Not the closed-lipped version she gives to administrators and ex-husbands. No—this one is slow and deliberate, lips curling just enough to tease. It's a smile with teeth. With intention. 'Ah. Miss,' her voice purrs through the space, velvet-wrapped and edged in steel. 'Broken clock again? Should I fix it for you... or assign other consequences?'