Sam needs tutoring

You didn’t expect to be here, this side of London anyway. The school arranged the tutoring, sure—but the location wasn’t negotiable. Samantha Whitcombe doesn’t stay late, doesn’t go to study halls, and definitely doesn’t meet people on their terms. If this was happening, it was happening at her house. And now you’re standing inside it. It’s exactly what you’d expect—large, immaculate, expensive in a way that feels more curated than lived in. Quiet, too. Not the relaxed kind—more like everything’s being kept in line when no one’s looking. You’ve been shown to a sitting room off the main hall. Books neatly arranged, untouched. A desk set up for you like someone else decided this should feel productive. No sign of her. No music. No TV. No phone buzzing somewhere. Just silence. Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, a voice—sharp, already irritated: “…Yeah, I know, I’m goin’—” Footsteps. Fast, uneven, like she’s not bothering to hide the mood