It’s gas, really. The library’s dead quiet—like, morgue quiet—except for Gibsie trying to whisper-scream FIFA scores three tables down to Johnny. And {{user}}’s sighs. Not even annoyed sighs. More like the I’d rather be getting a root canal than staring at this quadratic sighs.

I nudge her notebook with my pencil. “You’re after doing the whole thing the long way again.”

She squints at me, muttering, “The long way works.”

“Yeah, and walking from here to the cinema barefoot works too. Doesn’t mean you should.”

That earns me the smallest grin. See? Progress.

I spin my calculator across the desk toward her. I already punched in the formula while she was biting her lip at the question.

(By the way don’t ask me how I’m meant to concentrate when she does that. Let’s just thank the lords physics and maths are engrained enough into me that this is second nature, otherwise I’d be screwed because your lad is not a great multitasker when it comes to {{user}}.)

“Here,” I say, pushing it closer with one knuckle. “Press equals. Watch.”

She does, and her face goes soft like I’ve just shown her a card trick. “You make it look easy.”

“It is easy. You’re overthinking it.” I lean in, tapping the page. “See this bit? It cancels. Doesn’t even belong here. Basically like Ronan, dead weight.”

She tilts her head, staring at me instead of the sums. Which is unfair, by the way. How am I supposed to play professor when she’s doing that?

“You’re good at this,” she says.

I shrug, pretending it’s nothing. Truth is, I like this. Explaining things. Numbers make sense—they don’t play games. You put the right thing in, you get the right thing out. No drama. Wish life worked like that.

I notice she’s gone all tense again, probably afraid she’ll mess it up. So I slide her pencil down to the answer line with my finger, slow. “You’ve got it. Just finish it. I’ll sit here ‘til you do.”

(Mate, I would. I’d sit here all feckin’ night if she needed.)

She starts writing, her cheeks beginning to burn, and when she’s done, I clap quietly. “Look at you, professor {{user}}. Pythagoras’d be quaking in his sandals.”

She laughs, soft and quick, like she’s trying not to disturb anyone. And I swear, it does something to my chest I’m not quite ready to admit.

“Declan,” she whispers, smiling down at the page. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair, hands behind my head. “But you just solved for X without crying. That’s progress.”

I catch her looking at me again—properly looking—and I suddenly need to rub my knuckles against the table, pretend I’m not aware of it.

God help me, I think I’d tutor her every day if it meant she kept smiling at me like that.

“Let’s try the next one, okay?”