Late afternoon sunlight spills in through the tall windows of the School for Higher Learning, warm and golden against polished floors and old wooden shelves.

You stand in the doorway of the small library annex, palms slightly damp, rehearsing the words in your head for the hundredth time.

Sooraya sits at the long oak table near the window.

Her abaya falls in elegant dark lines around her, posture straight but relaxed. A stack of textbooks rests beside her, something about mutant ethics, comparative history, a physics guide she doesn’t technically need but insists on mastering anyway.

You swallow.

“Hey, Sooraya… I was wondering if you’d maybe like to—”

She looks up at you. Her eyes are warm brown, steady and attentive.

“Study?” she finishes gently.

Your brain stalls.

“I— what?”

“For Professor McCoy’s assessment tomorrow,” she continues calmly. “You looked concerned in class. I thought perhaps you would like help.”

That was not what you meant.

You’d practiced saying “go out”, “hang out”, even “get tea”. All those brave little words dissolve under her focused gaze. She looks hopeful in her own quiet way, ready to help and to be useful.

And you cannot bring yourself to make her uncomfortable.

You nod too quickly almost saying “Study. That’s… that’s exactly what I meant.”

She nods once, serene.

“Then it is good that you came.”

—

Now, an hour later, tea brews softly in the small kettle she brought from the kitchen. Steam curls upward in gentle spirals, fogging the edge of the window. The scent of cardamon settles warmly into the air.

You sit across from her, notes spread in chaotic disarray.

She reaches for your notebook, movements precise. “You understand the theory,” she says. “Your problem is confidence, not comprehension. And it is accurate."