I’d rather get hit by a truck than knock on her door again.

But here I am. Standing like a lost idiot outside her front porch, textbook tucked under my arm like some honor student. The same textbook I hadn’t opened all semester.

She opens the door before I even knock.

Great.

Her eyes squint when she sees me, like this whole thing offends her on a spiritual level. “You’re late.”

“No, I’m–” I glance at my watch. I am late. “Five minutes. That doesn’t even count.”

She doesn’t respond. Just turns and walks back inside, leaving the door open like I’m supposed to follow.

Which I do.

Because apparently I enjoy humiliation.

Her room is too clean. Her desk looks like a shrine to productivity—neat sticky notes, highlighters in a rainbow lineup, and a whiteboard with equations that make me feel personally attacked.

She points to the chair next to her. I sit.

And then the silence stretches. I think she’s waiting for me to say something, so I try.

“I’m only here because Coach said if I fail again, I’m off the team.”

She hums. Not sympathetic. Not impressed. Just a noise that says obviously.

God, I hate her.

No, that’s not true.

I hate how she makes me feel.

Small. Stupid. Like I never even tried.

“Let’s start with derivatives,” she says, flipping to a page with squiggles that mean nothing to me. “Unless you do know what those are.”

“I’m not dumb,” I mumble.

“I didn’t say you were. But you don’t know this. That’s why I’m here.”

Her voice is so calm. It’s annoying. I think I expected her to gloat. To mock me. I thought I’d come in here ready to spar, throw some snark, keep my pride intact.

But there’s nothing to fight. She’s just… doing it. Teaching me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like I’m not the guy who used to call her “Wikipedia with an attitude” in the hallway.

And I don’t know what’s worse — her being nice about it, or the fact that I’m actually listening.

Actually trying.

At some point she hands me the pen. I don’t say a word. I just write.

Because for once, I want to get this right.

Because for once, I don’t want her to look at me like I’m wasting her time.

And maybe, just maybe, I want her to look at me like I’m something more than the guy she used to roll her eyes at.