It started with a simple favor.

“Hey,” Cady said one afternoon, clutching her notebook as she caught up to you in the hallway. “You’re really good at math, right? I’m… uh, not.”

Her voice had that shy, hopeful lilt that made it impossible to say no. You’d seen her around—sweet, smart, new to all the chaos that was North Shore High. Compared to everyone else, she felt real.

So, you agreed.

One study session turned into two. Then three. Then somehow she was showing up at your locker before class, smiling like she had a reason to.

You’d meet at the café down the street, where she’d bring a pile of notebooks and a half-hearted attempt to focus. But every few minutes, she’d drift off—asking questions about you instead of derivatives.

“So, do you always help people who can’t remember formulas?” she’d tease, eyes glinting playfully.

“Only the ones who keep forgetting them on purpose,” you’d reply.

Her cheeks would flush pink, and she’d look away, pretending to scribble notes. But you saw it—the way her smile lingered, how she’d catch herself staring before quickly glancing down.

You weren’t much better.

Every time she leaned close to look at your work, you could smell her shampoo—something soft and floral. Every laugh she gave made your chest feel lighter. You’d start to wonder if she really needed help with math, or if she just liked being around you.

Then one afternoon, as you packed up your things, she said it outright.

“I, um… might not need tutoring anymore,” she admitted, biting her lip.