2
937 Words
I approach his table with all the confidence of a runway model—and all the panic of a drowning cat.
He’s still got his earphones in, flipping through some calculus textbook like it’s a freaking romance novel. His posture is relaxed but focused, like he’s used to ignoring the world. Or just hates it.
“Hi,” I say, leaning one hip on his table.
No response.
“Hello?” I try again.
Still nothing. Just the soft scratch of a pencil against paper and the faint sound of music I can barely make out—probably something boring. Definitely not Taylor Swift.
I tap the table.
That gets his attention.
Eli slowly looks up, pulls out one earbud, and stares at me like I just asked him to sacrifice a goat.
“Yes?” he says flatly.
“I need a tutor,” I say.
He doesn’t blink. “And?”
“And I hear you’re good at this stuff.”
He shrugs. “Sure. Doesn’t mean I want to tutor you.”
Ouch.
Okay, so he’s honest. Cool. Cool cool cool.
“Come on,” I say, flipping my hair. “You’re smart. I’m desperate. It’s the perfect equation.”
“Math humor,” he says. “Cute.”
“That wasn’t a joke.”
“Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes. “Listen, I don’t need you to write a college thesis for me. I just need help passing one test. A C. That’s it.”
“A C?” he repeats. “You came all the way over here, interrupted my study session, and made me take my earphones out… for a C?”
“Why does that sound like you just judged my entire academic existence?”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Because I did.”
God, I already hate how good his jawline looks when he smirks.
“Look,” I say, fighting the urge to throw my binder at him, “I know I’m not your usual study-buddy type. But I’ll do anything. I’ll owe you.”
He raises a brow. “Anything?”
I pause. “Within reason.”
“Define reason.”
“Anything legal. And non-soul-destroying.”
“Disappointing,” he mutters.
I give him a look. “Seriously. I’m Cheer Captain. If I don’t pass this test, I lose my title. Everything I’ve worked for. You’ve got, like, the brain of a NASA intern. I just need a fraction of that for two weeks.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “When’s the test?”
“Twelve days.”
“Twelve days,” he repeats. “That’s not much time.”
“I don’t need a miracle,” I lie. “Just enough to scrape by.”
Eli studies me for a beat longer than necessary. “Why me?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“You could ask your friends. Or bribe a teacher. Or cheat again.”
I straighten. “I didn’t cheat. That test was… creatively interpreted.”
His look says he’s not buying it.
I sigh. “Okay, maybe I cheated a little.”
He doesn’t smile. Just folds his arms tighter.
“Truth is,” I continue, “no one else will do it. Everyone either hates me, fears me, or thinks I’ll snap their neck if they correct me.”
“And you won’t?”
“Not if you say it nicely.”
He leans forward now, and his expression shifts. It’s not amused anymore. It’s serious. Cautious.
“You’re not going to take this seriously.”
“I am, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But after a few seconds, he sighs like it physically hurts him and mutters, “Fine.”
Wait—what?
“Fine?” I ask.
“I’ll tutor you.”
“You will?”
“Three conditions,” he says, holding up a finger. “First: You show up on time. Every session.”
“Deal.”
“Second: You do the work. No whining. No excuses.”
“Rude, but okay.”
“And third…” He pauses. “You don’t talk about me outside of these sessions.”
I blink. “You mean, like… don’t tell anyone we’re studying together?”
“Exactly.”
“Wow. Do I embarrass you that much?”
“I just like my peace. And you… you’re a human fire alarm.”
“That’s not even an insult. Fire alarms save lives.”
“Only when they’re not giving people migraines.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Deal.”
Eli stands up and holds out a hand.
I stare at it like it might bite me. “What’s that for?”
“To shake,” he says. “That’s what normal people do when they make deals.”
I take his hand and give it a shake. It’s warm. Firm. Just long enough for the tension to spark—and then he pulls away like touching me might turn him into glitter.
He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder.
“Meet me here tomorrow. Four o’clock. And bring your actual materials—not just lip gloss and excuses.”
He walks away without another word.
I watch him go, already regretting every life choice I’ve made that led me here.
But at least I’ve got a tutor.
Sort of.
And I’m going to pass that stupid test if it kills me.
Even if my tutor looks like he might actually kill me first.
- Writer
