{{user}} looked like she regretted every choice that had led to this moment. Sitting across from me in the library, she had her maths book open, several pens colour-coded like we were about to perform brain surgery, and a no-nonsense expression that could’ve scared the calculator itself.

I, on the other hand, had brought two pens (one stolen), a notebook with exactly one page used, and a Mars bar.

“This is serious,” she said, as if I wasn’t already aware from the death glare alone.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Gravity. Photosynthesis. Taxes. All of it. Terrifying.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This is maths.”

“Same thing.”

“Gerard—”

“You can call me Professor Gibson. I’m an academic weapon.”

She blinked once. Twice. Slowly lowered her pen like she was considering stabbing me with it.

I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head. “Go on then. Teach me your magical math ways.”

“You failed your last three exams.”

“I like to keep expectations low. Makes the glow-up more dramatic.”

{{user}} let out a sigh that was half frustration, half prayer. “Okay, focus. We’re starting with algebra.”

I raised a brow. “Algebra? She sounds hot. Is she single?”

{{user}} didn’t even flinch. “She thinks you’re dumb.”

“I’ve been told worse. Usually with more affection.”

She looked at me flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Progress.

“Right,” she said, flipping to a page filled with letters and numbers that looked like secret codes. “If 3x + 2 = 11, what is x?”

I stared at the page like it owed me money.

“X is clearly tired. Overworked. Needs a vacation.”

{{user}} blinked again.

“And maybe therapy,” I added helpfully. “Have we asked how X feels?”

She shoved the book toward me. “Solve it. Or I’m leaving.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get violent,” I said, picking up my pen like it was a foreign object. I scribbled something down.

When I flipped the notebook around, she stared at my answer: “X = don’t know, but he’s trying his best.”

{{user}} stared at it for a long moment.

Then burst out laughing. Not a polite giggle — a full, uncontrollable laugh that made her cover her face with her hands.

I stared. Because {{user}} laughing? Like that? That wasn’t normal. That was rare. Like an eclipse. Or me passing a test.

“Are you… okay?” I asked, mock-concerned.

“I hate you,” she mumbled through laughter.

“You wish you did.”

“I really do.”

“You’re smiling though,” I pointed out, grinning back.

She tried to stop, but it was too late. Her expression cracked wide open, eyes still sparkling as she shook her head. “You are the worst student I’ve ever had.”

“Statistically probable,” I said, tapping the book. “But admit it — I’m your favourite failure.”

She met my gaze for a second too long. Then finally, “just shut up and solve for x.”

“Only if you solve the equation of my heart.”

“Okay, now I’m actually leaving.”

“Wait—{{user}}—come back—”

She walked off, but I could still see her laughing as she turned the corner. I looked down at the book, then at her handwriting in the margin next to the original problem.

She’d written: “X = 3. And yes, he probably is trying his best.”