Her room was unusually quiet — the kind of quiet that comes when someone is concentrating too hard. Papers were spread across the desk, a notebook open to a page full of half-erased numbers, arrows, and frustrated scribbles.

{{user}} stared at the problem for what felt like the tenth minute straight. “…this makes no sense,” she muttered, pencil tapping against the paper.

Tsukishima sat on the edge of the bed, glasses low on his nose, scrolling through his phone. He hadn’t planned on interfering. Truly.

But he had noticed. The sighs. The way she kept erasing the same line. The tiny crease forming between her brows.

He glanced over. Then back to his screen. Then over again.

“…You’re overcomplicating it,” he said finally.

She looked up at him, eyes tired. “I am not.”

“You are,” he replied calmly, already standing. “You skipped a step.”

He leaned over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel his presence without him touching her. His finger hovered over the notebook, pointing. “This part. You don’t factor it in until after.”

She followed along, blinking. “Wait… oh.”

He smirked — small, satisfied. “See?”

She shifted in her chair so he could sit beside her. He did, reluctantly at first, then more comfortably than he’d admit.

“I’m only one class ahead of you,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s not that big of a gap.”

“Feels like it right now,” she sighed.

He picked up her pencil without asking. “Watch.”

His handwriting was neat, precise. Every movement deliberate. He explained in short sentences — not too many words, but just enough to make it click.

“You solve this first. Then substitute. If you do it the other way around, you’ll just confuse yourself.”