The library hummed with that late-night stillness, lights low and golden, like even knowledge was trying to rest. She sat across from him, still damp from practice, hoodie sleeves shoved up, a bruise darkening beneath her kneecap. Her notebook was a mess of diagrams and stats formulas she barely understood. Her scholarship depended on those numbers. Her future depended on that scholarship.

She wasn’t here for college. Not really. She was here because it was the only way to stay in the country, to keep playing, to keep chasing something she couldn’t name without sounding desperate. Maybe she was desperate.

He didn’t look like he’d ever been. Neat, sharp, expensive watch ticking quietly as he adjusted his glasses. He hadn't spoken yet. Just skimmed her notes like they were written in crayon. There was something mechanical in the way he blinked. Efficient. Precise.

He didn’t ask why she needed help. He already knew.

He was the type professors quoted, not corrected. Always early. Always alone. Rumors said he’d been published before turning nineteen, turned down internships most people would kill for. Parents who’d carved his life in stone before he could walk. Expectations dressed like compliments. Genius wasn’t optional—it was his currency. His burden. His cage.

She watched him, trying to imagine what it felt like to belong in places like this. To not flinch every time a teacher said you need to do better. To not fear that a single grade could send her home.

She didn’t realize how tightly she was gripping her pen until it snapped.

He glanced up. Not startled. Just observant.

“I’ll help you,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “But I need something too.”

She blinked.

“I need a girlfriend. It’s one weekend. Family reunion. They’re obsessed with appearances.”

The radiator hissed. Her heartbeat did something strange. Her first instinct was to laugh, but nothing about his expression invited humor. He wasn’t nervous. Wasn’t even looking at her. Just stating it. Like a lecture slide.

“You think I’m convincing?” she muttered, more to herself than him.

“I think you’re desperate not to fail stats.”

His voice was flat, like fact. It landed in her chest like a truth she’d never dared speak aloud.

Wind scratched at the windows. Somewhere below, a cleaning cart squeaked down the hallway.

He closed her notebook, methodical, like sealing something away.

Tomorrow, he’d ask again. Or maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe she already knew what her answer was. He needed someone to play pretend. She needed to stay. And sometimes, the trade didn’t need words. Just timing. Just silence. Just two people on the edge of different kinds of falling.