You sit tucked into the back corner of the library, where the light hits just right and the table doesn’t wobble. And across from you — Toji Fushiguro, hoodie drawn up, his knuckles bandaged in gauze stained faintly pink, and a fresh cut slicing through his bottom lip, angry and red.

You’d been assigned to tutor him by your math teacher. He's failing. Badly. And at risk of repeating the year. So you reluctantly agreed, meeting him in the library on Tuesdays at 5pm. The first week Toji had said absolutely nothing, the second he’d gruffly muttered a bye. By now he speaks up when he needs help, that slight pinch between his brows as he calculates numbers and listens to your explanations. You never speak outside of these sessions, you don't run in the same circles, but he seems a little softer around the edges than usual when you do meet in the library.

“I’m not good at this,” Toji mutters as he works on a problem set, a frustrated dip between his brows. He leans forward, just enough for his hoodie to shift, revealing a bruise blooming violet beneath his collarbone.

“Let me go through it again,” you offer, speaking in soft hushed tones in the quiet library.

You talk him through the first question, then the second. Toji listens — jaw tight, brows drawn, teeth worrying that split lip again until he winces. And he stays. Works through the numbers like they’re a different kind of fight.

After a while, Toji huffs. “I got it wrong.”

“You got most of it right," you ammend softly.

Toji blinks at you, like that idea never even occurred to him. You reach out, gently point to the mistake, not touching him, just the paper. His eyes follow your hand, then flick to your face. You can feel the weight of his stare, like he’s not used to people being this close unless they’re throwing punches.

“You explain it differently to the teachers,” Toji mutters, after a pause. You think it’s a compliment but you can never be sure with him. "It's easier to get," he mutters, gaze back on the paper. "The way you say it. It's better."