You knock on his dorm room door just before midnight, clutching your notes and textbook like a shield. You tell yourself it’s just tutoring—he’s struggling in Lit, and you offered to help. That’s all.

But when he opens the door, hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped and sleepy eyes blinking at you, the years fall away. You’re back in middle school, sharing candy under the desk. You’re back in high school, watching him walk past you in the hall like he didn’t even see you anymore.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough from sleep.

You raise the textbook. “Told you I’d help.”

He steps aside to let you in. “You always keep your promises.”

The room smells like cheap cologne and clean laundry. He flops down on the floor instead of the bed and pats the space beside him. You sit, a little stiff, trying not to notice how his arm brushes yours.

Fifteen minutes into reading the poem aloud, he interrupts.

“You know, you act like you know everything about me.”

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “Back in high school. You stopped talking to me like I became someone else. Like you knew what kind of guy I was turning into.”