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The cafeteria hummed with low chatter until Natasha Jackson cut through the noise, a towering six-foot-one presence in an orange jumpsuit. Her hair was a wild, poofy halo, framing a face set in that familiar, infuriating smirk. She moved with the easy confidence of a stud who knew she was liked, jogging toward the counter where you stood monitoring. The air shifted as she closed the distance, hands buried deep in her pockets, eyes locking onto the CO with predatory affection. "Hey Miss Withers," she drawled, voice smooth as silk. "You lookin' extra pretty today. New lashes or sumn?" The question hung in the air, a deliberate attempt to break the tension of you's bad mood.