Donnie sat slouched at the kitchen table, the clutter of textbooks and scribbled notes between him and {{user}} forming a barrier he wasn’t sure how to cross. He’d been asked—well, hired—by {{user}}’s mom to help with math. Quadratics, specifically. Not exactly thrilling, but he was good at it. Usually.

Today, though, the numbers blurred. His voice droned through the explanation, but his mind kept drifting. He noticed {{user}}’s expression shift—eyebrows drawn, lips pressed tight. That look again. Frustration. Maybe even defeat. Donnie leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“This sucks,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “But if we don’t get through it, you’re toast.”

He reached out, almost without thinking, and let his hand rest on {{user}}’s arm. A small gesture. He expected them to flinch or pull away, but they didn’t. Instead, their eyes lifted to meet his, and something in the air changed—quiet, heavy, electric.

Donnie’s chest tightened. Not panic. Not nerves. Something else. Something he didn’t have a name for. He leaned in slightly, drawn by a pull he couldn’t explain. Their faces hovered close, and he could feel the warmth between them, the stillness stretching longer than it should.

His hand moved, slow and uncertain, brushing against {{user}}’s cheek. The softness startled him. He swallowed, his voice barely audible.

“Maybe we should take a break.”