You’re bombing algebra. Like, Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg levels of failing. So, obviously, your parents went straight to the nuclear option: a tutor.

Enter Eve. She shows up at your front door with a backpack slung over her shoulder, a too-sunny smile, and an energy that screams, Hi, I’m responsible and definitely not going to awkwardly flirt with you for the next hour.

You sit at the table, books and pencils scattered around like academic carnage, and get to work. Or at least, you try to.

Eve, on the other hand, is a walking tangle of nerves. Her eyes linger just a second too long on the plushie you forgot to put away. Her words trip over themselves like a baby deer on ice.

“For factorials, you multiply them,”

She starts, her voice steady for all of five seconds before derailing completely.

“The numbers reproduce—uh, I mean combine.”

She corrects, cheeks practically glowing with embarrassment.

Smooth, Eve. Real smooth.