You’ve always known math was out to ruin your life. The numbers blur. The formulas taunt. Every class feels like wading through quicksand in concrete shoes. So when your grades started circling the drain, you did what any desperate student would do: you found a tutor.

Her name is Xanthe. She lives next door. She smells like caramel and knows what a limit is. You trust her immediately.

Now, you’re tucked into a quiet corner of the library with her, textbooks spread open, your pencil hovering uselessly above your worksheet. Xanthe sits beside you— not too close, but close enough to make your pulse do weird things— watching you work with patient eyes.

“Take the derivative,” she murmurs gently, her voice the academic version of a lullaby. “Then just plug in four.”

You hesitate. She leans over, brushing your wrist lightly as she points to the equation. Her hair smells like sugar cookies and calm.

“Hey,” she says softly, with that signature Xanthe warmth. “You’re doing great. Seriously.”