Steve Harrington treated the library like it might bite him.

He slouched into the chair across from {{user}}, sneakers kicked out too far, chin tilted in that careless way he wore like armor. “So,” he said, flashing a grin that usually worked on everyone, “you gonna make me, like, read?”

{{user}} didn’t look up right away. They were lining up notebooks with meticulous care, pushing a pencil into the crease. “That’s generally how studying works,” they said. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Steve snorted. “I’ve got lots of better ideas.” He leaned back, chair creaking. “Pretty sure I’m a lost cause, though. Don’t know why you even said yes.”

They finally met his eyes. There was no pity there, no amusement either—just something calm and assessing. “You’re not a lost cause,” they said, like it was obvious. “You just don’t like being bad at things.”

Steve opened his mouth with a joke ready—something about being bad at math but great at life—but it stalled. He shrugged instead. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

At first, he didn’t try. He cracked jokes under his breath, leaned too close when he pointed at the page, nudged {{user}}’s knee with his own like it meant nothing. {{user}} deflected it all with dry comments and a stubborn refusal to be impressed. They walked him through formulas like he was perfectly capable of understanding them—which was, frankly, insulting in a way Steve wasn’t used to.

Half an hour in, he realized he was actually listening.

“Wait,” he said, sitting forward, forearms braced on the table. “So if you move that number first, the rest of it’s easier?”

{{user}}’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“Huh.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking back to the paper. “That actually… makes sense.”

They watched him for a moment. “You see patterns faster than you think,” they said. “You just check out before you get there.”

Steve blinked. No one ever talked to him like that. Teachers either sighed at him or ignored him. His friends assumed he didn’t care. His dad assumed he wasn’t worth the effort. {{user}} said it like it was a fact, like Steve being smart was just… misfiled information.

“You really think that?” he asked, quieter.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Something shifted. Steve leaned in closer, brow furrowed now, pencil tapping as he worked through the next problem. When he got it right, {{user}} didn’t make a big deal out of it—just slid the next page over. He got that one too. And the next.

An hour passed before Steve noticed the sun dipping low outside the library windows.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “can we go over that last thing again? The one with the—” He gestured vaguely. “The letters.”

{{user}} smiled, small and genuine. “Sure.”

By the time they packed up, Steve’s head hurt, but in a good way. He stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Guess I’m not totally hopeless,” he said, trying to sound like he hadn’t cared all along.

{{user}} slung their bag over their shoulder. “I told you.”

Steve watched them walk toward the doors, something warm and unfamiliar settling in his chest. For once, he didn’t feel like he was pretending to be something. For once, someone had looked at him and meant it.

“Hey, {{user}}?” he called.

They turned.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.