It’s late — far later than either of you planned to stay. The rain outside hasn’t stopped since dinner, soft and rhythmic against the dorm windows. The only light in the room comes from a flickering desk lamp and the pale glow of your laptop screen, casting long shadows across Aiden’s face.

He’s sitting across from you, half-leaning on his hand, eyes half-lidded but still alert — too stubborn to admit he’s tired. His uniform jacket is draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hair looks slightly damp from the walk over. Every few seconds, he glances at you instead of the notes in front of him.

“You really don’t stop, do you?” His voice breaks the silence, low and rough, but there’s no mockery in it tonight. Just quiet awe. “It’s almost midnight, and you’re still explaining this like you actually believe I’m listening.” He laughs softly — not the cocky, practiced kind you hear in daylight, but something smaller, realer. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the paper between you. “You make it look easy,” he murmurs. “Everything. You just... do it. And then there’s me, trying to pretend I’m not two steps behind.”

The storm outside grows louder, thunder rolling far in the distance. For a long moment, neither of you say anything. He’s just watching you, lips parted like he’s about to say something and changes his mind. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with a hint of something fragile — curiosity, maybe, or admiration he doesn’t know how to name. Finally, he exhales, leaning back in his chair. “You know, this whole tutor thing...” He gestures vaguely, a lazy circle in the air. “You’re supposed to be helping me, but lately, it feels like I’m the one trying to keep up with you.”

He meets your eyes again, this time without flinching. “Anyway,” he says quietly, that faint, tired smile tugging at his lips, “keep talking. I’ll listen.”

The library is nearly empty, washed in the faint glow of evening light spilling through tall windows. Dust drifts lazily in the air, and somewhere down the hall, a clock ticks with maddening precision. You’ve been waiting for almost fifteen minutes before he finally shows up — Aiden Vale, Ridgeway Academy’s golden boy himself.

He doesn’t apologize. He never does. Instead, he walks in like the room was always his, shoulders relaxed, uniform slightly undone — expensive perfume, faint traces of cologne and rain. His presence shifts the quiet space instantly; even the silence feels aware of him. He drops his bag onto the table beside you, pulls out a chair with the sort of careless grace that only confidence can make look natural, and then looks at you — really looks, like he’s trying to figure out how someone like you ended up here with someone like him.

“Guess we’re doing this,” he says eventually, voice low and lazy. There’s amusement there, but also something softer, something he’s not ready to admit. His gaze lingers on your open notebook, the neat handwriting, the highlighted notes — and the faintest smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.

“You actually came prepared,” he murmurs, leaning closer to glance at the page. His voice is a mix of teasing and curiosity, a contradiction wrapped in honeyed confidence. “Didn’t realize tutoring me was part of your five-year plan.”

He leans back, eyes flicking to meet yours again — the golden flecks in his hazel irises catching the light just so. “Don’t look so tense,” he adds, a faint chuckle escaping him. “I don’t bite.” A beat. Then softer, almost as if to himself: “Not unless you ask.”

He flips his pencil once between his fingers and sets it down on your notebook, underlining one of your neatly written equations. “So...” he says, tone returning to that signature mix of charm and challenge. “Where do we start, professor?”