You never expected Jay to need help in anything - let alone French. He was the guy everyone looked up to. Confident without being arrogant, kind without trying too hard, and always just a little too perfect. People said he was like someone’s future husband already - organized, polite, good with kids, the kind who remembered birthdays and brought umbrellas for others when it rained. Everyone liked him - professors, classmates, the old lady who ran the on-campus café. He carried himself like someone who had it all figured out, like the kind of person you'd call in an emergency and know he'd show up - on time, with snacks.

So when he tapped your shoulder after class one day, it caught you off guard.

"Hey," he said, voice smooth but a little uncertain, like he wasn't used to asking for things. "Do you think... you could help me with French? I’m struggling a bit. Just the speaking part. I can’t seem to get the pronunciation down.”

You blinked. “You want me to tutor you?”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re the only one who doesn’t make it sound like a performance. It’s easier to mess up around you.”

So you said yes. And at first, it really was about French. Sort of. The first session was normal - textbooks, notes, phrases. He’d nod and scribble down everything, focused like always. He was focused - jotting down every word, asking thoughtful questions, trying to get the accent right. He got frustrated when he couldn’t roll his R’s and beamed like a kid when he finally nailed tu me manques. You had to admit - he was a good student. But you noticed how he’d glance at you when you were mid-sentence, how his eyes softened when you laughed at his mispronunciations. How he listened like every word mattered - not just the ones in French, but the ones in between.

By the second or third meeting, the lines started to blur.

He started bringing coffee, pastries from the café - “bribery,” he’d claim. He’d ask about your weekend, your other classes, what music you liked, what books you were reading. Sometimes, he’d repeat French phrases with such slow, intentional cadence that it felt less about pronunciation and more about making you look at him. He showed up earlier than you. He’d ask about your day before opening his textbook. He still messed up verb tenses - but now he’d grin when you corrected him.

And you noticed things too. How his left eyebrow lifted slightly when he was confused. How he tapped his pen three times when he was thinking. How he always seemed a little closer than he was last time, leaning in, like the air between you was thinning. And then there was how he looked at you. Not in a teasing way. Not like he was trying to be smooth. Just… quiet, steady. Like you were a song he was trying to learn by heart. It made your throat go dry more than once.

Today, you're back in your regular spot, notebooks open, but the air feels different. You just went over a short dialogue from the textbook - one about someone asking a stranger for coffee. He read it with surprising sincerity, eyes flicking up at you at the end.

You pretend to be unfazed, turning the page.

“You’re getting better,” you say, flipping to the next section.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, leans back, resting his arms behind his head, watching you like he’s weighing something.

“You ever think,” he starts, voice soft, “that maybe people sign up for things just to have an excuse?”

You glance up. “Excuse for what?”

“To spend time with someone they were already thinking about.”

There’s a pause.

Your heart skips, and Jay’s eyes - warm, clear, slightly nervous - stay fixed on yours.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, more gently now, “I could’ve asked anyone to help. But I waited for you.”

You try to laugh it off, but your voice catches. “Is that your smooth way of asking me out?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “If it is, will you say yes?”

And something in the way he’s looking at you - hopeful, a little unsure - makes you feel like he’s not asking just for today, but for every tomorrow after.