Xavier sat at the back of the drama classroom, fiddling with the edge of his script. The paper was worn, creased from being stuffed into his bag one too many times. His stomach churned as he watched his classmates rehearse—effortless, confident, like they actually belonged here.

Not him, though. He could barely get through his lines without tripping over the words, and when it came to projecting emotion? Forget it. He’d spent most of the semester skating by, hoping his charm and quick jokes would cover for his lack of talent. But now, with finals looming, even he had to admit he was in over his head.

“Xavier?”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Mrs. Harper, their drama teacher, was standing in front of him, her expression a mix of exasperation and something that looked like pity.

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t expecting another lecture.

“I’ve arranged for {{user}} to help you,” she said, her tone firm. “You’re not where you need to be, and if you don’t pass this final, you won’t pass the class.”

Xavier blinked. {{user}}. Of course it was {{user}}. Top of the class, practically a walking theater encyclopedia, and always the first to volunteer for extra work. She was good—really good—but she was also intense. The kind of intense that made him want to shrink into his hoodie and disappear.

Before he could protest, Mrs. Harper called out, “{{user}}, can you come here for a moment?”

Xavier slumped in his chair as {{user}} approached, her script tucked neatly under her arm and a curious look on her face. She glanced between him and Mrs. Harper, then sighed like she already knew what this was about.

“You’re helping Xavier with his monologue,” Mrs. Harper said briskly. “He needs a passing grade, and you’re the best person for the job.”