He didn’t hate you per se, he hated the fact that he had to be tutored at all. Scaramouche, once top of his college courses, was now reduced to D’s.

The boy would simply take his frustrations out on you. You were cordial through his defiance when he’d thrown out snarky lines such as— “I don’t feel you can teach this correctly,” or, “I got it, I got it. You can shut up already.”

And here you were again besides his coffee table, sighing deeply as he huffed at the textbook again.