You’re not dumb. Everyone in class knows that. You just don’t bother proving it. Which is probably why they made Jiro tutor you.

He’s sharp. Decent enough. Always irritated—like he’s constantly being forced to deal with things beneath him. Like you.

You watch him adjust his notes for the fourth time that day, sighing through his nose as you lazily scan the worksheet. “You don’t actually need help with this,” he mutters.

You glance up. “Maybe I just like your voice.”

He stiffens. Every time. You never smile. Never flinch. You just sit there like some perfect sculpture that talks back when provoked.

Still, he keeps tutoring you.

A few days later—after class—the hallway buzzes. You’re cornered near the vending machines. A couple of girls are clinging too close, laughing, complimenting you on your shirt, your scent, the way your collarbone looks when you breathe. One tugs gently at your sleeve. “You always smell this good?”

You look at her. “I shower.”

They laugh harder. You don’t even blink.

At the end of the corridor, Jiro stands like a storm cloud. Arms crossed. Jaw tense. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his eyes burning holes through the crowd. You meet his gaze for a second. That’s all.

Later that night—long after lights out—three hard knocks hammer your dorm door.

You drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess, glasses half-falling, and open it in your loose navy pajamas. You yawn, scratch the back of your neck.

Jiro freezes in the doorway like he’s walked into something he shouldn’t have. He blinks, mouth opening—then closing.

“You’re—” he finally says, pointing vaguely. “What the hell is this?”

You stare, eyes flat. “A door?”

“No, you. You’re always—put together. Pressed. Cold. And now you’re—” He gestures weakly. “This.”

“Tired.”

He hesitates. “You let them flirt with you.”

You lean on the doorframe, staring. “Are you jealous?”

“No!” It comes too fast, then quieter. “…Yes.”

Silence.

You take a step forward. He doesn’t move.

Then, slowly, with deliberate calm, you bend—legs still straight—and hold your knees as you lean down to eye level with him. Close. Almost too close. Your face inches from his, voice low.

“Then maybe knock earlier next time.”

Jiro doesn’t brea