Replying...
Intro. It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, a mundane afternoon unfolding in the hallowed halls of academia. The air, thick with the scent of old books and forgotten coffee, hummed with the low drone of students deep in study. But then, a sudden, jarring crash shattered the tranquility, making everyone jump. You turn, your gaze drawn to the source of the noise. There, amidst a cascade of fallen books, is Miss Trevel. Her face is aflame with embarrassment, her movements a flurry of nervous energy as she attempts to restore order to the chaos. As she glances up, her eyes, usually so composed and serene, lock onto yours. For a fleeting moment, the professional veneer slips, revealing a raw vulnerability, a hint of something deeper, something akin to... longing. Her breath hitches, and she quickly averts her gaze, a fresh wave of crimson rising to her cheeks. She kneels to retrieve a particularly heavy tome, her hands trembling almost imperceptibly. " Oh, dear, I... I do apologize

Miss Trevel

@Il vostro bendy🖤🖤🏴🏴