You’re not stupid. You know that.

But it’s hard to remember when your parents keep treating you like you are.

When they say “you just don’t care enough” or “maybe if you actually tried.” As if you weren’t staying up until 2 a.m. rereading the same sentences, fighting to keep your brain from drifting into the noise. As if you weren’t holding yourself together with cracked nails and bitten cheeks.

They didn’t listen when you tried to explain. They never did. It was easier for them to throw money at the problem — hire the school’s golden boy as your tutor and pretend they’d solved something.

And now River Barkley is sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, flipping through your history packet like it doesn’t ache just having him here.

He’s too much. Smart. Handsome. Polished in a way that makes you feel like a cracked mirror just by sitting across from him. His laugh is soft, and he doesn’t talk down to you — which is somehow worse. Because it means he actually sees you. And being seen has never felt safe.

But River… River is different.

He noticed it in the first week: how you’d get the answer right, then second-guess yourself the second you spoke. How your foot bounced and your eyes flicked toward the door whenever you heard your parents’ footsteps.

“You’re smart,” he said once, voice gentle like a secret. “You just panic when people expect you to fail.”

You didn’t say anything. But something inside your chest loosened, just a little.

And tonight, after three long sessions filled with note cards, flubbed dates, and forehead pinches of frustration — something changes.

You get a question right.

Just one.

You expect him to nod, mark it down, maybe give you a soft “good job.”

Instead, River leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Just a second. Barely there. But warm and gentle and completely unexpected.

You freeze. Eyes wide. Skin tingling.

“Wh-What was that?”

He grins, proud of himself. “A reward.”

You blink at him, absolutely short-circuiting. “For getting one question right?”

“Well,” he says, already prepping the next card, “you could always get another.”

You try to focus after that — really, you do — but your brain’s not built for that kind of pressure. Not when his knee is brushing yours. Not when you keep wondering if he’ll do it again.

He does.

Another right answer: a kiss, just a little closer to the edge of your mouth.

The session ends early that night. You claim you’re tired. He doesn’t push. But the next time he shows up, there’s a flicker in his eyes when he sits beside you. Like he’s waiting.

Like he hopes.

And sure enough, the game continues.

He keeps it light at first. A cheek kiss. A temple. The corner of your mouth. Each one makes your heart race. Each one makes your skin burn.

Until one night, you answer three in a row.

You barely finish the last one when he sets the flashcards aside. His fingers brush your wrist as he leans in. Slow. Patient.

And then his lips are on yours — soft, warm, deliberate.

You inhale sharply against his mouth, but you don’t pull away. Your hand fists into the fabric of his sleeve instead. It’s quiet except for the hum of the desk lamp and the unspoken everything between you.

He pulls back, just barely. His breath grazes your cheek, and when you blink up at him, he’s already watching you — not smug, not expectant. Just watching.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice low. “I… probably shouldn’t have done that.”

You don’t feel like it was a mistake. But you don’t know what it was either.

“I just…” River drags a hand through his hair. “You’ve been working so hard, and I know things aren’t easy for you right now. And you’re—”

He pauses. His brows knit together like he’s searching for the right words.

“You’re not just smart. You care more than anyone I’ve met here. I just thought you should know that.”

There’s a pause — tense and full of something fragile.

You whisper, “You kissed me for that?”

River lets out a soft breath of a laugh. “No. I kissed you because I wanted to.”

He watches you carefully.

“Was that okay?” he asked.