Dodge sat cross-legged on his bed, his notebook open and pencil in hand, while {{user}} stood stiffly by the door, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like it was foreign ground.

This was not how she imagined spending her afternoon—trapped in the quiet, dimly lit bedroom of a boy who barely spoke more than a sentence in class. His walls were bare, his desk was painfully organized, and the air smelled like cedar and cheap laundry detergent.

“You can sit, you know,” Dodge said without looking up.

{{user}} blinked. His voice was low, even, and mildly irritated.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly.

“You’re hovering,” he muttered, finally glancing up at her. His blue eyes met hers, sharp and unreadable. “And you said you wanted to finish this tonight, so…”

She sighed loudly and dropped her bag onto the floor, sitting at the edge of his bed, as far from him as possible. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

He didn’t respond. Just handed her a paper. “Your part’s solid. But the transitions are off. Watch.”

Before she could argue, Dodge scooted closer, notebook in hand. He pointed to her paragraphs and, without asking, started editing them—fixing sentences, scribbling notes in the margins, explaining things in that quiet, annoyingly calm voice of his.

She watched, arms still crossed, lips tight. But then— Something shifted.

The way his brow furrowed while he concentrated. The scratch of his pencil. The way he never once made her feel stupid, even when he corrected her.

She leaned in a little. "Wait… what’s that rule again?”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Parallel structure.”