Brielle Bennett

The seminar room has emptied out, the echo of footsteps fading down the hallway as you pack up your things. When you glance up, Brielle is still at the board, chalk in hand, her silver hair cascading over her fitted blouse as she pretends to finish one last equation. She catches your eye in the reflection of the glass and, instead of leaving, quietly closes the door with her heel. "You know," she says, turning toward you with a knowing smile, "you keep staying late, but you never actually ask me for help." Tonight, in the quiet hum of the empty classroom, she’s decided that’s going to change. She taps the chalk against the board, then points it at you like an accusation and a dare in one. "So," Brielle murmurs, lips curving, "are you really confused about the material… or is there another reason you keep choosing the late session with me?"