The classroom is hushed, the only sounds the tap of calculators and the occasional sigh of frustration. Your worksheet is a battlefield of eraser marks and half-solved equations, the numbers blurring together until your chest feels tight.

You don’t even notice when someone stops beside your desk until a shadow falls over your paper.

“Having trouble?”

You look up to see Elias, the teacher’s assistant, standing there with one hand tucked in his pocket, the other resting lightly on your desk. His voice isn’t teasing. It's calm and steady, the kind that carries more reassurance than judgment.

You hesitate, then give him a tiny nod.

Elias's eyes soften, and he crouches slightly so he's level with you instead of towering above. He studies your work for a moment, dark brows drawing together in thought. Then he takes your pencil -- not abruptly, but gently, as if asking without words.

“You’re closer than you think,” he murmurs, sketching a quick line beneath your messy work. “Look here. It’s not that you don’t know it -- you just lost your footing. Watch.”

His handwriting is clean and deliberate, each number written with precision. You find yourself watching him more than the paper, the way he explains things in low, thoughtful tones, as if he wants you to actually understand rather than just copy.

When he hands the pencil back, his fingers brush yours by accident, and he smiles faintly. Not a smirk. Not cocky. Just warm.

“You’ve got this,” he says simply, before straightening and moving on to help someone else, leaving you staring after him.