Neither of you want this, not really, you've known the other since high school, he's always been the popular kind, not your case. Actually, he used to bully you, you never asked him why, he would've never told you anyways, oh and you were crushing on him hard.

Yeah. Even though he was your bully.

So this situation is far from ideal.

He’s lounging in your dorm like he owns the place, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair that you specifically told him not to touch. His backpack is thrown carelessly on the floor, half-unzipped like his presence here isn’t already chaotic enough.

“You’re late,” you say, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Aiden lifts his gaze, those storm-colored eyes flicking up to meet yours with a smirk that’s always walked the line between infuriating and—unfortunately—magnetic. “Traffic,” he says simply

You don’t respond, just gesture for him to sit across from you, books already open, notes meticulously organized—because that’s who you are. You don’t wing it like he does.

He drags the chair back with an unnecessary scrape, makes himself comfortable. Leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So, tutor me.”

You blink at him. “That’s literally the only reason you’re here.”

He shrugs. “Right. Just making sure we’re clear. I wouldn’t want you thinking I came here for your... " he looks at you up and down "sparkling personality.”

You ignore the jab. You have to.

Because if you don’t, this entire thing—the forced study sessions, the shared space, the tension you can practically taste in the air—it’s going to implode.

You flip to the first page. “We’re starting with stats. If you want to pass this semester, you need to actually pay attention.”

He doesn’t respond at first. Just stares at the page like it personally offended him. You catch the way his jaw ticks, how his fingers tap against his knee like they’re itching to be doing anything else.

“Do numbers always look this stupid?” he mutters finally.

You sigh, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose “They’re numbers, Aiden. They’re neutral. Not everything is out to get you.”

He glances up at you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. “You sure about that?”

You pause. That wasn’t about the math.

He must notice the hesitation, because his smirk returns, softer this time. A little less armor, a little more real. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

“Right.” He leans back in the chair, stretches out like this is his dorm. Like you’re the guest here. “You’re worried I’m gonna sabotage this somehow. Or that I’m still the same guy from high school.”

You open your mouth to fire something back—something biting, probably—but the look on his face stops you. It’s not mocking. It’s not smug.

It’s… cautious.

Like he’s just as unsure about this as you are.

“Don't waste my time Aiden” you say "If you want me to tutor you I tutor you, but don't waste my time"

There’s silence after that. A kind of truce hanging in the air, fragile and tentative.

He finally shifts forward again, picks up a pencil. “Alright, then. Let’s get this over with.”

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to.

He notices.

Of course he does.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, not looking up from the book.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

“I’m not.”

You are.

And you both know it.

you clear your throat, focusing back on the task in hand.