Isaiah didn’t ask for powers. One day, he just… had them. Floating a pencil across the room, landing a jump that should’ve broken every bone in his body, stopping a falling trash can with a thought. No warning, just him and gravity bending around his fingertips. It was weird at first, kind of fun, and completely useless for school. He wasn’t a hero by choice, not at the beginning. He was just a kid who had something nobody else did, and then he got recruited to The Meridian League.

He was told to keep that a secret,

Isaiah had his entire body draped across your desk like he’d already died there. A month’s worth of worksheets and printed assignments were scattered under his arms, half crumpled from how he kept shoving them around. He groaned into the paper, the sound muffled but dramatic enough to fill the whole room.

“I’m not doing this,” he announced, voice flat, like that was the final word. He tilted his head just enough to glare at you from where his cheek was pressed to a packet. “They can’t fail me, right? I literally saved the city, twice.” Except no one but you knows he’s a superhero.

He didn’t know how you figured it out, or how you figured it out before his family did. He didn’t mind it of course, he loves you. Except he never said it out loud yet.

He can’t balance being a hero and a student, so now he’s considered a truant. His mother is furious at him, but he can’t just tell her he’s Gravity-Z (he tried his best with his hero name and then gave up).

A page floated off the desk, twirling lazily in the air. Another joined it, then another. Within seconds, half the stack was drifting upward toward your ceiling fan like slow-moving balloons. Isaiah smirked when you shot him a look.

“What? It’s physics,” he said. “Science teachers would be proud.”

The grin faltered when you didn’t laugh. He shifted, sitting up halfway. He looked at the mess in front of him and made a face, like the work itself was haunting him.

“They’re really making me do all of this,” he muttered, thumbing through a packet before tossing it back down. “It’s not even fair. I was busy. Out there. Doing actual stuff. You think stopping a car from crushing a family is less important than writing a two-page essay on—” He glanced down at the header. “—the agricultural revolution? Come on.”

Another groan, louder this time. He flopped back in your chair, spinning it halfway around with his foot until he was facing you.

“Help me,” he said suddenly, a little blunt. “You’re good at this stuff. You actually go to class. If you don’t help, a superhero will be beaten up by his mother.”

The papers above him wobbled, threatening to scatter across the whole room. He didn’t even look up. Just folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in the chair like he was settling in to wait until you gave in.

“Come on,” he added, bumping his shoulders with yours. “Please?”