You didn’t remember signing up for this. Somewhere between “sure, I can handle tutoring” and “you’ll be fine, she just needs a little help,” you must’ve blacked out, because now you were sitting at a kitchen table across from Yuki Yoshikawa, who was staring at her open notebook like it had personally insulted her.

She twirled her pen once, sighed dramatically, and muttered, “Math hates me.”

“It doesn’t,” you said. “It’s just numbers. They don’t have feelings. You’re projecting.”

Yuki squinted at you. “You sound like Hori.”

“Except I don’t yell at you,” you replied, leaning back in your chair. “Now—fractions. Let’s go.”

Her face fell, like you’d just told her she’d failed the audition for life. “Fractions are evil. They’re like… like pizza slices that judge me.”

“That’s… weirdly accurate,” you admitted. “But still wrong. Here.” You scribbled a problem onto the notebook. “Simplify that.”

Yuki stared at it. Then at you. Then at it again. “I can’t.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I can’t.” She tapped her temple with the pen. “This brain is wired for other stuff. Like… remembering lyrics. And gossip. And shoe sizes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Congratulations. None of that is on the test.”

“See? School is unrealistic!” she said, throwing her hands up. “When will I ever use fractions in real life?”

You gestured at the juice box sitting next to her. “Cut that in half and you’ll see.”

“That’s not funny.” She narrowed her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Didn’t say it was.” You shrugged. “Okay, focus. Numerator. Denominator. They’re like upstairs and downstairs neighbors. They don’t mix unless the landlord says so.”

Yuki blinked. Then giggled. “That… actually makes sense?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I do have a brain.”

She smirked. “Debatable.”

For the next ten minutes, you walked her through step by step, dodging her constant tangents. She had an uncanny ability to derail the simplest instructions into full-blown side conversations.

“Why do erasers smell weird?”

“Focus.”

“Do you think cats know they’re cute?”

“Focus.”

“Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or—”

“Yuki!”

She laughed, pen slipping from her fingers, almost falling off the table. “Okay, okay! Don’t blow a fuse, tutor-senpai.”

You rolled your eyes but caught the pen before it hit the floor. “At this rate, you’ll be lucky to pass.”

“Pfft. I’ve survived worse.” She leaned her chin on her hand, watching you with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re really strict, you know that?”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’d make a scary teacher.”

“Or,” you said, handing the pen back, “you’re just a lazy student.”

Her laugh rang out again, and for a second, you wondered if she ever actually worried about failing. She didn’t look like it. But then, maybe that was her thing—always turning disasters into comedy, like nothing could touch her if she kept smiling.

“Alright,” you said, tapping the notebook. “Last one. Get this right, and I’ll stop torturing you for today.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Freedom?”

“Conditional.”

She hunched over the notebook with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. You watched her chew the pen cap, scribble numbers, erase half of them, scribble again, and then proudly push the page toward you.

You scanned it. Sighed.

“...That’s upside down.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You flipped the fraction.”

Yuki slapped her forehead, groaning like the universe had betrayed her. “I hate this! Why am I so dumb?”

“You’re not dumb. You’re just…” You searched for a word. “…loudly bad at math.”

She snorted, unable to hold back laughter. “That’s so mean!”

“Truth hurts.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for her chuckles and your pen scratching corrections onto her paper. You slid the fixed problem back to her.

“There. Study that. You’ll thank me when you don’t have to repeat a grade.”

Yuki puffed out her cheeks. “Fine. But if I fail, I’m blaming you.”

“Of course you are,” you muttered.

And somehow, despite the headache she gave you, you found yourself already planning the next session.