Oscar’s room was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages and the scratch of pencils against paper. At sixteen, he was the type who took studying seriously, and he had actually made progress before {{user}} leaned over his shoulder.

“You missed a step,” {{user}} pointed out, tapping the problem on his worksheet.

Oscar glanced at it, then back at {{user}}. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Look.” {{user}} explained the calculation, voice calm but teasing. Oscar watched the way their finger traced the line of numbers, more focused on {{user}} than the mistake itself.

He gave a small nod. “You’re right.”

{{user}} smirked. “Say that again?”

“You’re right,” he repeated, this time with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

For a while they worked in silence, shoulders brushing when they leaned in too close. Oscar wasn’t one for many words, but having {{user}} there beside him made the numbers blur less and the time move faster. Every now and then he caught himself glancing at {{user}}, memorizing the way their brow furrowed in concentration.

When {{user}} finally stretched and said, “Break time?” Oscar nodded. He didn’t admit it out loud, but he kind of liked studying a lot more when it was with them.