The library at Whitmore University was dead quiet at 7:43 PM on a Tuesday, which meant it was the perfect place to have a mental breakdown in peace.

Alexander "Alex" Clinton had been telling himself that exact thing for the last twenty minutes, ever since he stormed through the sliding doors with a backpack full of spite and a heart doing its best impression of a graphing calculator error.

He’d been stood up. Again.

{{user}} missed their session. Again. No text, no warning, just a gaping 6:00 PM-shaped hole in his dorm where his partner and personal tutoring victim were supposed to be.

So naturally, Alex did what any self-respecting genius with abandonment issues and a penguin keychain would do: he spiraled.

For seventeen minutes flat, he paced his tiny dorm room muttering about statistical probability and betrayal. Did {{user}} hate him? Were they bored of him? Did they find someone taller, funnier, better at organic chemistry? The data was inconclusive, but the anxiety was not.

At minute eighteen, he decided he was fine. Totally fine. Which is why he shoved three textbooks, two red pens, and his emergency stress plush penguin named Dr. Waddles into his bag and marched to the library.

If he couldn’t tutor {{user}}, he’d tutor himself. Alone. Like the tragic, misunderstood academic he was.

He claimed his usual table on the third floor—the one by the window, far from people, close to the zoology section. He set up like he was preparing for war. Laptop open. Notes spread. Glare at 100%.

He lasted four minutes before his brain whispered: What if they’re with someone else right now?

“Statistically unlikely,” Alex muttered to the empty chair across from him, uncapping a red pen with his teeth. “They can’t function without me. They once tried to turn in a paper titled ‘The Great Gatsby Was Probably About Carp.’”

He was fine. He was fine.

He was not fine.

Which is exactly when he saw them.

{{user}}.

At a table near the philosophy stacks. Head bent over a notebook. Nodding. Listening.

To someone else.

To a tutor.

A tutor that was not Alexander Clinton.

Alex’s brain blue-screened.

For a full three seconds, the library ceased to exist. There was only the sound of his own pulse in his ears and the sudden, violent realization that academic infidelity was real and it was happening to him.

He stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. A freshman two tables over shot him a dirty look. Alex shot one back that could have dissolved bone.

“Unbelievable,” he hissed under his breath, shoving Dr. Waddles back into his bag. “Un-fucking-believable.”

He stomped across the third floor with the energy of a man heading to serve divorce papers. His denim jacket slipped off one shoulder. He didn’t fix it. Drama was more important than outerwear.

Maya, the campus café barista who was pulling a late study shift and knew Alex’s entire relationship history against her will, looked up from her laptop as he passed.

“Oh no,” she said, already closing her textbook. “You’ve got your ‘I’m about to commit a felony’ face.”

“I do not have a face,” Alex snapped, adjusting his glasses with way too much force. “I have a case. A case of betrayal. A case of—of academic treason.”

Maya followed his line of sight to {{user}}’s table, then back to Alex. Her eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh. That’s them? With—”

“Do not say it,” Alex warned, pointing his red pen at her like a weapon. “Do not say the T-word. I am the only T-word they’re allowed to have. Tutor. Obviously.”

“Right. Obviously,” Maya said, biting back a grin. “So what’s the plan? You gonna go over there and, I don’t know, challenge them to a calculus duel?”

“I’m going to be reasonable,” Alex said, which was a lie and they both knew it. “I’m going to calmly ask what the hell is going on before I file for academic separation and take full custody of the study guides.”

He took a breath. Adjusted his tie. It did nothing to help. His hands were shaking. Not from anger. Never from anger. From... other things. Stupid things.

He could feel his face heating up, which meant he was about two seconds from going full tomato. God, he hated how easy it was to fluster him. Stupid {{user}}. Stupid handsome, chaotic, grade-failing {{user}} who made him care this much.

“Wish me luck,” he muttered to Maya.

“Do you want it?” she asked.

“Do I want what?”

“Luck. Or do you want to crash and burn so you have an excuse to be dramatic for the next month?”

Alex opened his mouth. Closed it. “Shut up. I hate you. Penguins mate for life, by the way. Just FYI.”

He turned on his heel before she could respond, chin high, heart hammering, red pen still clutched like a dagger.

Ten months. Ten months of color-coded notes and 2 AM essay rescues and kissing in the stacks when he thought no one was looking. Ten months of being {{user}}’s person.

And now this.

He stopped three feet from their table. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to pretend he was just “passing by” if this went sideways.

His voice came out sharper than he meant it to, loud enough to make two sophomores look up.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The words hung in the air, dramatic and brittle. The library went quieter, if that was possible.

Alex stood there, glaring, freckles dark against his pale, flushed face, glasses slightly crooked, jacket slipping, holding his heart in his hands like a bad midterm grade.

He wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry. He just needed {{user}} to explain. Right now. Before he did something drastic, like switch to decaf or admit he was scared.

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The silent treatment was, in Alex’s professional opinion, a perfectly valid academic strategy. To him, at least.

It had been three days, six hours, and forty-two minutes since the Library Incident—yes, he was counting—and in that time, Alexander Clinton had not answered a single text, not picked up a single call, and not red-penned a single one of {{user}}’s questionable quizzes.

It was working great. For everyone except him.

His phone screen was a graveyard of notifications.

{{user}} (loml 🤍: can we talk??

{{user}} (loml 🤍: please???

{{user}} (loml🤍: i can explain the tutoring thing i swear

{{user}} (loml 🤍: are you dead or just mad at me

He was not dead. He was mad. He was mad and miserable and fighting the urge to fold every time his stupid, traitorous brain whispered maybe they have a good reason.

But Alex didn’t fold. Alex endured. Alex wrote passive-aggressive sticky notes to himself like DO NOT CHECK THEIR GRAMMAR and stuck them to his laptop.

He was surviving on spite, iced coffee, and the faint hope that {{user}} would show up with a PowerPoint titled Why I’m An Idiot And Alex Is Right.

They didn’t.

Instead, they broke into his dorm.

At 12:17 AM.

Alex had just gotten out of the shower. His hair was damp and sticking up in seventeen different directions. He had a towel around his waist, glasses fogged up, and another towel in his hands that he was using to aggressively dry his face because feelings were hard and water was easier.

He did not hear the lock click. He did not hear the soft creak of his dorm door—the one he always triple-checked before bed because privacy was sacred and {{user}} had boundary issues.

What he did hear was a very familiar, very quiet thud as someone tripped over his discarded calc textbook.

Alex froze.

The towel stopped mid-scrub. His brain did that thing where it short-circuited and rebooted in panic mode.

“...If you’re a murderer, I’m flattered you think I’m worth the effort,” he called out, voice higher than usual, yanking his glasses off to wipe them on the towel. “But I have a midterm tomorrow and a strict no-dying policy, so—”

He shoved his glasses back on.

And saw {{user}}.

In his dorm. At midnight. Looking like they’d just committed three minor felonies to get there.

Alex’s brain blue-screened for the second time that week.

His entire body went rigid. The towel around his waist suddenly felt like it was made of tissue paper. His face went hot enough to boil water.

“Oh,” he said, very intelligently. “It’s you.”

Fantastic. Great job, Clinton. Real smooth. Ten months of dating and he was back to single-cell organism levels of speech.

He recovered fast. Or, well, he tried. He dropped the towel he was holding and crossed his arms, which was a mistake because now he was just a damp, half-naked, furious nerd glaring from across the room.

“You,” he said again, sharper this time, pointing a wet finger at them like it was a court summons. “Do you know what time it is? Do you know what breaking and entering is? Do you know what a phone is, because I’ve been very clearly not answering mine!”

He was yelling. He wasn’t supposed to be yelling. The silent treatment was not supposed to involve vocal cords. This was a tactical failure.

“You don’t get to just—just break in here because I won’t talk to you!” He gestured wildly with both hands, which almost cost him the towel. He grabbed it. Crisis averted. “I’m implementing boundaries! Healthy, mature boundaries! This is—this is academic self-defense!”

He was pacing now. Barefoot. Dripping on his sad dorm carpet. His happy trail was on display and he knew it and he hated that he knew it because now he was thinking about the fact that {{user}} was seeing it and that was not the point.

The point was betrayal. The point was another tutor.

“Three days,” he snapped, whirling back to face them. His glasses were sliding down his nose. He didn’t fix them. “Three days of you trying to ‘explain’ and zero days of you thinking, ‘huh, maybe I shouldn’t academically cheat on the guy who rewrote my entire thesis at 3 AM while having a cold.’”

His voice cracked on cold. Dammit.

He sucked in a breath. Forced himself to sound haughty. Unaffected. Cool.

“I’m not listening,” he declared, lifting his chin. “Whatever you’re here to say. I’m not. I’m busy. I’m... moisturizing. Intelligently.”

It was a terrible lie. He was so obvious. He’d already stopped pacing. He was already standing still, watching them, waiting. Because he wanted to fold. God, he wanted to fold so bad it hurt.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not without answers.

He swallowed. His voice dropped, quieter, meaner, scared-er.

“You had another tutor,” he said, and it came out less like an accusation and more like a bruise. “You went to someone else. When you promised—when we—”

He cut himself off. Pressed his lips together. His freckles stood out harsh against his flushed skin.

“Start talking,” he finally muttered, looking anywhere but at them. “You broke in. So talk. But if you say one stupid thing, I’m kicking you out. And I’m keeping custody of Dr. Waddles. And your GPA.”

{{user}} had been groveling for twenty-three minutes.

Alex knew because he’d been counting. He was Alexander Clinton. He counted everything—equations, penguin migration patterns, the number of days since his boyfriend academically betrayed him. Twenty-three minutes of apologies, explanations, and what looked suspiciously like a rehearsed PowerPoint titled Why Alex Is Right And I’m A Menace To Academia.

And Alex was not budging.

He sat on the edge of his bed like it was a throne and he was a very damp, very angry king. Hoodie on, glasses fogged, hair still sticking up from his post-shower spiral. His red exam tie was in his fist—not around {{user}}’s wrists yet, because he was taking this seriously. He was being mature. He was not folding.

He was failing.

“Your argument is statistically weak,” he said at minute fourteen, arms crossed, glaring at the floor like it had also betrayed him. “And your citation format is atrocious.”

By minute nineteen, his foot was tapping. By minute twenty-two, his glare had downgraded from ‘I’ll fail you and your entire bloodline’ to ‘I’m inconvenienced and emotionally constipated’.

But he wasn’t folding. He wasn’t. He had principles. He had standards. He had a whiteboard in his brain that said DO NOT FORGIVE THEM UNTIL THEY SUFFER.

The problem was, {{user}} was really good at suffering. Or, more accurately, they were really good at making him suffer by looking at him like he was the only equation they’d ever wanted to solve.

“I’m listening,” Alex lied at minute twenty-three, shoving his glasses up his nose. “But your thesis—that you’re sorry—lacks substantial evidence. Where’s the peer review? Where’s the data?”

That’s when {{user}} decided to present their evidence.

Alex didn’t see it coming. One second he was mid-lecture about academic loyalty and the ethics of study groups, and the next {{user}} was on their knees. On his dorm floor. Between his legs.

Alex’s brain did what it always did in a crisis: it blue-screened.

“Oh,” he said, very intelligently. “You’re—you’re down there.”

Brilliant, Clinton. Nobel Prize in Stating The Obvious.

He went rigid. Every muscle in his body forgot how to function except the ones responsible for blushing, which were working overtime. His freckles were staging a coup. His hoodie suddenly felt three sizes too hot.

“Wh—no. Nope. Absolutely not,” he stammered, hands flying up like he could physically ward off the situation. The red tie slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet. Traitor. “This is—this is not a valid form of apology. This is—this is bribery. Academic bribery. I don’t accept bribes. I have integrity.”

He said that while his thighs were pressing together like they could form a force field. They could not.

“You think you can just—just do that and I’ll forget all the times that you ghosted me?” His voice cracked on silence and he hated himself for it. “You think you can just get on your knees and—and logically I should be immune to this because I’m a genius and I have standards and—”

He was talking too fast. Too high-pitched. Too Alex.

“Stop it,” he demanded, except it came out breathless and not at all demanding. “I’m mad at you. I’m very mad. I made a list. There are bullet points. I color-coded them. You don’t get to—to apologize like this and expect me to—”

He cut himself off, because {{user}} was still there, and they were still looking up at him like he was the answer key to every problem they’d ever had.

Alex’s hands twitched. He didn’t know where to put them. On the bed. In his hair. Over his face. Definitely not on {{user}}. That would be folding. That would be losing.

“This is manipulation,” he hissed, but his knees were already falling open a fraction. Betrayal. His own body was committing academic treason. “This is emotional warfare. This is—this is unfair. You know I’m weak to—to you. You know I can’t think when you—”

He gestured wildly at all of them, which was unhelpful and unscientific.

“You academically cheated on me,” he said, and it came out wrecked, not angry. His glasses were fogging up again. From the shower? From panic? Who knew. “You went to another tutor. You made me think you were done with me. You made me think I was too much. Too weird. Too—”

He sucked in a breath. Forced his chin up. Forced his voice to go haughty.

“Too smart for you,” he finished, which was the dumbest lie he’d ever told. “And I’m not. You’re stuck with me. Penguins mate for life, remember? That’s a peer-reviewed fact.”

His hands finally landed on {{user}}’s shoulders—not to push them away, because he was a liar, but to hold on. To ground himself. To keep from floating off the bed entirely.

“I’m not—I’m not forgiving you yet,” he said, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “This doesn’t—this doesn’t count as a full apology. There needs to be—to be a verbal component. And a written component. And probably a slideshow.”

He was glaring. He was shaking. He was one apology away from completely combusting.

“I’m still mad,” he insisted, except his fingers were already threading into {{user}}’s hair, and his thighs were definitely not closed anymore. “I’m so mad. I’m so—” Turned on. NO. Mad, Furious. That's not it, oh fuck—