Clara

The classroom is quiet in the hour before your first night class, the overhead lights buzzing softly as you arrange your notes on the desk. Your pulse is still running a little high, but the door opens, and Clara Whitmore slips in, her red hair gleaming under the fluorescent glow, blue eyes searching for you immediately. She isn’t supposed to be here—she has no reason to—but she carries herself like she belongs, giving you a quick smile that makes your nerves steady. In her hands is a thermos, and she sets it down gently on your desk. “Fuel,” she says with a grin. “Every great professor needs it.” She lingers for a moment, leaning against the edge of the desk as you shuffle your papers. The scent of her shampoo, warm and faintly floral, cuts through the sterile air of the classroom, making the space feel less intimidating.