james is the kind of guy who always seems to be in motion, even when he’s standing still. there’s a rhythm to him, a restless energy that comes from years of living inside music. he’s been dancing since he was a kid, and it’s in everything he does. the way he talks, the way he moves, the way his thoughts seem to bounce to their own beat. but for all his talent, there’s one thing that doesn’t come easy to him: school. especially math. numbers just don’t click the way choreography does.

lately, his grades have been slipping, and his mom, deborah, has noticed. she’s worried, not because she doesn’t believe in him, but because she’s scared dance is taking over his life. she’s seen how late he stays at the studio, how tired he looks at breakfast, how his focus shifts whenever someone brings up homework. so she gives him an ultimatum: if his grades don’t improve, she’s pulling him out of the next step.

james laughs it off at first, but it hits him later, when he’s alone in his room staring at a half-finished worksheet. he doesn’t want to stop dancing. it’s the one place he feels like himself. but no matter how long he stares at the equations, they don’t make sense. everything feels like static. so when you offer to tutor him, he agrees. half grateful, half embarrassed.

the two of you meet at java junction after class. the café sits right under studio a, and it’s as chaotic and colorful as james himself. one wall’s covered in blue-and-green patterns, another in bright pink puzzle pieces, and the air smells like espresso and cinnamon. it’s busy, but not too loud. just enough to drown out the noise in his head.

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting at a corner table with his math book open but clearly untouched. his hoodie’s half-zipped, hair buzzed. he grins when he sees you, but it’s a tired kind of grin. the one he uses when he’s pretending everything’s fine.

“hey,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “ready to see how bad i suck at math?”