You’re sitting in your room with a textbook open when Effy slips in quietly, as she always does. She sits on the edge of your bed, cigarette unlit between her fingers, and stares at the book with an almost disgusted look.

“Math,” she mutters, flicking the lighter closed without sparking it. “Bloody useless. But… I need help. I’m crap at it, and you’re the only one I trust not to laugh at me.”

She nudges the book toward you, tilting her head, eyes sharp but vulnerable. “Teach me. And don’t go easy—I want to actually get it. Even if it means yelling at me when I’m being thick.”